A Different Approach
by Snazzy Suit
Summary: The Infection has completely ravaged North America and threatens to spread to the rest of the world. Many organizations strive to find a cure, but only one has made progress. This group has taken a different approach. The key? A smart mouthed janitor.
1. Cue Laugh Track

This story is a gift to my crazy friend Lullilt, who convinced me I should actually put this idea on paper.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Left 4 Dead. I soooooo wish I did though. XD

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><p>Cue laugh track.<p>

Another humorously awkward moment between the star crossed lovers, both too stubborn to admit their feelings for one another.

That same laugh track sounds again. It's all in my mind of course; you don't usually hear laugh tracks in romantic comedies. Not in any I've seen anyway. I play that familiar sound in my head, as a weird source of entertainment, when I watch these movies. I even find myself doing that in everyday situations, especially in recent months. My odd way of coping with everything I guess.

The oblivious friend walks in on the soon to be couple's private moment, ruining the romantic air, but in its place providing the staple comedic relief.

I roll my eyes, briefly distracting myself with the shadows constantly shifting and twisting from the flickering light of the television. I blink a few times, trying to rid myself of that burning sensation one gets from watching TV too long in the dark.

They're at a restaurant now. The clumsy male lead accidentally trips a waiter, who proceeds to spill their dinner all over the female lead.

Cue laugh track.

I stretch, but quickly retreat back under the heavy blanket draped over me and curl up against the armrest of the sofa. Television is a nice luxury to have again after all the madness I have been through the past couple of weeks, but I'd give just about anything to have a reliable source of heat.

When I resume paying attention, the movie is just about over. The destined lovers have had a spat, but the man has realized his mistake and takes off to re-win the woman's affection.

I used to hate this genre. Well, I still do to a degree. It's hard to find a film without at least one of the romantic comedy clichés; tonight I happened to pick out one that seemed to have them all. As cheesy and predictable as this movie was, I couldn't bring myself to turn it off. For me, it was a way to escape to a simpler time. For an hour or two, I could pretend I was back home with my fiancé, wrapping up our Friday night with a couple of bad movies.

I shut my eyes for a moment, imagining her curled up next to me laughing at the over used plot devices, as we added our own commentary to the movie.

It's nice to pretend.

I was so lost in my own fantasy, I had failed to notice the soft echo of footsteps approaching me from behind. I didn't even get that odd sensation when you feel something looming over you. My eyes snap open when I feel a hand clasp my shoulder. For a split second I thought it was her and look up, expecting to see that familiar warm smile she always wore when she greeted me. To my horror I was met with something infinitely worse.

The credits from the movie had begun to roll, diming the room considerably, but I could still see a faint gleam of light reflecting off the sharp teeth of a hooded figure. Before I can even react I am ripped from my place on the couch and thrown to the floor. A shriek echoes off the walls as the creature lunges at me. I barely roll out of the way and scramble to my feet. I feel it grab at me but manage to pull away and quickly vault over the sofa.

'_Fucking Hunter! How did I not hear him coming_?'

The Hunter leaps over the couch and lands square on my back. I somehow prevent myself from collapsing under his weight and keep moving, using my momentum to flip around and slam him into the wall. The Hunter lets go in surprise, but quickly recovers and continues his pursuit.

My mind racing, I scan the small apartment for a weapon as I do my best to avoid tripping over the garbage and dirty clothes that litter the floor. Damn I really need to clean this place up. My filth will be the death of me. In my peripheral vision, I spot a baseball bat propped up by the front door.

That'll work.

I make a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding the pouncing Hunter who nicks my face with his razor sharp claws as he flies past me, and crashes into a nearby cabinet. My pace never falters; I knew that wasn't going to slow him down for long. I throw myself across the coffee table, knocking cups and dirty dishes to the ground and lunge at the bat that was almost within reach. I am only a few feet away when I feel something slam into me.

Never underestimate the recovery speed of a Hunter.

We roll on the ground, knocking over furniture, as we each try to overpower the other. I feel his claws rake at my forearm and respond with a strong jab to his jaw. No matter what we do neither of back down and continue to fight for dear life for what feels like an eternity. Eventually my strength fads and am unable to resist as he pins me down on my stomach and twists my arms behind my back.

God I hate their fucking endurance.

I growl in frustration when I still can't break free from his vice like grip. His breath sends a chill down my spine as he leans in close to my neck.

'_I can't believe he beat me_.'

His claws dig into my arms, attempting to elicit the response he desires.

"Okay! You fucking win! Now get off of me!"

He huffs and nudges me with his knee, as if encouraging me to continue.

"Alright! You're the strongest, fastest, smartest mother fucker to ever roam the Earth and….." I groan, hating the next part but knowing he wouldn't let up until I finished. "and….I hope that someday your awesomeness will rub off on me. It is truly an honor to be in your presence."

A scratchy chuckle vibrates from his throat before he finally lets go. I seriously consider tackling the smug bastard but am interrupted when my apartment door is practically ripped off its hinges. The lights flicker on, revealing a terrifying sight: my neighbor. Correction, my seriously _pissed off_ neighbor.

She storms into the room shaking with rage, glaring at the two of us with unmatched hatred. Even though the girl was much smaller than us, both in height and build, we shrink under her gaze and can't help but try to scoot away.

"What. The hell. Are you two fucktards DOING?" She shrieks, causing a few stray red hairs to fall in front of her face, making her look even more manic than she already was.

I open my mouth to speak but am quickly cut off.

"It was a rhetorical question! You're keeping me awake with all this goddamn noise! Do you have any idea what time it is?"

The Hunter and I exchange a wary look before glancing at a nearby alarm clock that had been knocked over in the scuffle. It was roughly three in the morning. We both hold up three fingers, unable to find a voice.

"That's right! And I have to get up in four hours to start my shift! So I would really appreciate it if you-" She stops mid-sentence, scanning the room with her dark green eyes for the first time. "…the hell? Did a tornado come through here?"

"Nah, it's been like that. I've been meaning to clean the place up for a week now." I reply rather casually.

She raises an eyebrow. "Your furniture has been overturned and or broken….for a week?"

"Oh…no, that just happened." I'm a dumbass.

"And just what were you doing?"

Neither of us speak up. To be fair, my leaping friend can't really speak to begin with. I, on the other hand, am just trying to keep myself from getting into even more trouble.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This time it isn't a rhetorical question, so speak up before I lose patience."

The Hunter stands and walks over to the sofa, apparently searching for something. He soon returns holding out the DVD case of the movie I had been watching. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. The Infected had a surprisingly good sense of humor.

The girl takes the case and flips it over to read the back, her face scrunching up in disgust. "You were watching a romantic comedy?"

Clearly she wasn't a fan.

I nod and rise to my feet, taking a spot next to the Hunter. A cavalier smirk creeps up her face. "Well, it must have been a _good_ one to get you two so excited."

My roommate and I lock eyes for a brief moment, a silent conversation passing between us. Now seemed like an appropriate time to play another one of our favorite games.

"Yeah…," I breath out as the Hunter and I turn to each other, leaning in slightly, "..it was." The gap between us slowly begins to close. In my peripheral I can make out my neighbor's shocked expression. My lips are just inches away from the Hunter's when I suddenly jerk back.

"Damn it! You win again!" The Hunter throws his arms up and does a small victory lap around the room, stopping only to bow at his imaginary fans. "I swear one day I WILL beat you at gay chicken!" He playfully rolls his eyes, as if to say: "_Yeah, like THAT will ever happen_."

My neighbor snaps back to reality when her mind pieces together what just happened, finally retrieving her jaw from the floor.

"You-you're just!" She lets out a loud groan and flails her arms in exasperation, unable to think of a word to describe our lunacy. The girl scoops up a soda can and nails me in the head with it before turning to leave. "Useless, the both of you!"

"Love you too, Cassandra!"

Door slams. Cue laugh track.

It's quiet for only a short time before the Hunter's bizarre laughter finally reaches an audible level. I shit you not he sounds like that dog from Wacky Races. What was his name? Muttley? I don't know which is more humorous, the events we just played out or picturing my roommate as a cackling cartoon dog. Either way, I lose it. The two of us laugh uncontrollably until tears threaten to stream down our faces. It's amazing how funny stupid shit seems in the wee hours of the morning.

When we finally settle down I do a quick visual sweep of the apartment. I didn't realize just how trashed it was until that moment. "Damn, we really did a number on this place."

The Hunter snorts in agreement, studying the carnage with dull interest before meeting my eyes.

"…What?"

He averts his gaze to something behind me and then quickly makes eye contact once more. Curious, I can't help but turn around.

"Oh…the baseball bat."

When I look back at my roommate, he is shooting me an accusing look.

"What? I wasn't really going to use it!"

He crosses his arms and a low growl rumbles from deep in his throat.

"I know we agreed to no weapons! Instead of preaching to me how about you admit to breaking a rule yourself?"

The Hunter quirks an eyebrow and hisses in response.

"Don't play dumb! You used your claws you cheating bastard!" I flash my scratched up forearm and point to the cut on my face for emphases. "The deal was I couldn't use weapons and you couldn't use your claws."

He glares at me with his steel gray eyes and huffs before looking away.

"While we're on the topic of our 'Cry Uncle' game, we need to really consider changing the 'I surrender' speech."

That gets his attention.

"Don't give me that look! You know it's not fair! When I eventually win you won't be able to say half the shit you make me say!" To this day, I still don't know how he came up with that crap. I think he got help from someone else in the facility that knows about our games. Assholes. All I know is one day he came up to me and handed over an envelope with 'Read this' crudely written on the front.

We don't get much further with our argument, which I guess makes sense when the other person involved has a very limited vocabulary. I would press the issue further if I didn't have to spend half the time decoding growls.

"Fuck it. We'll discuss this another time." I stretch and yawn loudly. "I don't know about you but I am _tired_. Ready to hit the hay?"

My roommate starts to nod, but then glances over to our destroyed living room. He turns back to me and whines a little.

"Eh, we'll deal with it later."

Worked for him. He bolts ahead of me and leaps into our room. I have never seen someone so excited to _sleep_. After turning off the TV and lights I groggily follow suit, not surprised to find him already curled up on his mattress in the corner. I swear I could hear him purring from the door. God he's like a cat…dog…zombie thing. Screw it, Hunters are weird.

I make a bee line for my bed in the opposite corner and flop onto it. Like my friend I don't bother with changing. Too lazy. I wrap myself up in my covers and quickly notice I am missing a blanket. Three guesses where it went, forget the first two. I shoot a look in the Hunter's direction. The greedy Infected has quite the little nest of pillows and linens that he has "borrowed" from me over time. Now, yet another blanket was added to his collection. That's one more thing to add to my 'Shit that needs to be addressed' list.

I let my mind wander a bit, for some reason it seems to focus on my roommate's odd sleeping arrangement. I never really thought about how funny this would look to a stranger. On one side of the room it is messy, with clothes and various junk tossed about. The other half of the room is mostly tidy. The bed may be covered with blankets and cushions, but it is arranged in such a way that it surprisingly doesn't look that out of place. (Which one of us is infected again?) The only thing that is off is the fact the mattress lacks a bed frame. That had to be removed from the vicinity because the Hunter liked to store weird stuff under his bed. Also, he had a strange fascination with hanging off the side of the bed and staring under it until he fell off from too much blood rushing to his head. I often teased that he was checking for monsters, which is kind of unsettling when you think about it. What the fuck are Hunters afraid of?

A Tank comes to mind, leading me to picture one materializing out from under the Infected's mattress. I can see the Hunter going into a frenzy, shouting in an imaginary voice: "See_? I knew this shit was gonna happen!_"

Easily amused, I begin snickering rather loudly into my pillow. My failed attempt to muffle the noise becomes apparent when my roommate wakes up, growling questioningly.

"Oh it's nothing, I just thought of something really stupid." I manage to wheeze as I start to settle down.

The Hunter makes an odd sound, his version of a sigh, and rolls over.

That sad chuckle fest of mine somehow zaps my remaining energy, a blessing I suppose. In just a short few minutes I feel my eyelids getting heavier to the point I can barely keep them open. Before I finally let sleep take me, I mutter my last words of the night.

"G'night Miles."

Miles huffs and then attempts a sendoff of his own. The first part is heavily garbled, but I distinctly hear my name.

"Gdnighrr…..Derek."

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

You are all probably really confused as to why this started out serious and then became...derp. The reason? I can't say for certain. XD

You are also probably wondering why some guy named Derek has a Hunter (named Miles oddly enough) for a roommate...that he talks to...and plays weird games with...Sounds like a bad sitcom doesn't it? I promise all will be explained soon. I assure you there is a reason the Hunter can (somewhat) communicate and understand people. He didn't magically obtain the ability I swear! Also, I am aware the character descriptions are vague (or practically non-existent) and I will provide them in detail in the next chapter or two. I like to slowly "paint" the image of my characters if that makes any sense. I'm not a fan of having a "Hi, my name is _ and I'm _ feet tall with _ eyes and _ hair" paragraph in my stories. (I'm not putting down people that do! I've seen it done very well, it's just not my thing.) I apologize if this bothers you, it's just how I roll. BD *bricked*

That's all I got! Reviews are always welcome, whether you want to tell me what you like/dislike about the story or critique me as a writer.

**UPDATE:**

Finally fixed the tensing in this chapter so it would match the others. Also phrased a few things a teensy bit differently. Nothing major.


	2. Don't Worry, it's Routine

"_Can't….breath…"_

I flail one of my arms, trying to find the source of my discomfort. My hand connects to something and I start tugging at it. Is that a shirt I'm feeling? When I finally force my eyes open, I am face to face with Miles. He is sitting on my gut like it's the most normal thing in the world. That explains why I'm having trouble breathing.

"What's your deal?" I rasp.

He holds up my alarm clock and points to the time. Unless I was mistaken, it showed it to be 11:00 in the morning.

"Okay…so it's time for my alarm to go off. Why did you wake me up instead of letting the clock do its job?"

He gestures to the clock again and shakes his head. I furrow my brow in confusion, not catching on to what the Hunter was trying to tell me. Miles takes note of my dumb expression and tries explaining a different way. This time he motions to my other hand, the one not currently clinging to his hoodie. Until that moment, I had not realized I was holding a pair of batteries with an impressive death grip.

"…..fuck."

Sometimes when my alarm clock goes off I go into 'angry sleep mode' and rip out the batteries instead of doing the smart thing and hitting snooze. This happens more often than I like to admit. Luckily, I didn't have anything extremely urgent to attend today. I did, however, want to make sure I woke up in time to meet some friends for lunch.

"Thanks for the wakeup call buddy but would you mind getting off of me now?"

This request earns a less than pleasant reaction. Miles firmly grabs my shoulders and rolls onto his back, tucking his legs to his chest in the process. The next thing I knew I was being kicked kangaroo style across the room. I was so caught off guard I'm honestly surprised I didn't land in a heap. I guess you learn a thing or two when you live with a Hunter.

"What the hell man? Why did you-" I freeze at what I see. The Infected is crouched in a pouncing position and has an all too familiar sneer plastered on his face. I didn't need to interrogate him to find out what would happen next.

"Oh? So you want to play _that _now eh?" I match his pose. "Bring it bitch."

Miles eagerly accepts my invitation and springs from his perch on the bed. In a quick fluid like motion I roll onto my back, catch the Hunter with my feet, and launch him through our bedroom door. The Infected adjusts himself in midair and shoots me a look upon landing, clearly agitated that I mimicked the move he pulled off just moments ago.

Without a second thought I get to my feet and lunge at my roommate. This time he was ready and catches me mid-leap, using my momentum to roll and toss my struggling form to the side. I slide a few feet before he leaps, trying to pin me yet again. Fortunately his take off was sloppy, so instead of hitting his target the Hunter only manages to grab my legs. I had been in this position more than enough times to know how to escape. In just a few short seconds I easily twist free of the Infected's grasp and make another attempt to end our game.

This continues on in a slightly varying pattern for several more minutes until our feud makes its way into our living room. We were evenly matched, but, like in all our games, one of us would eventually come out on top. Today, things seem to be in my favor when I notice an opening. I seize my opportunity and in one swift movement I have Miles firmly pinned to the ground Hunter style. It happened so fast; we just sit there for a moment, our brains trying to catch up to our bodies. This was quite the surprising outcome.

A rather goofy smile begins to creep up my face as the realization finally sinks in: I had won.

"Yes!" I leap into the air, arms shamelessly flailing. "Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!" At this point I break out into my well-deserved, albeit sad, victory dance. "The mighty Hunter beaten at his own game!"

Miles sits up, finally shaken free of his shocked state. He watches my display through narrowed eyes before letting out a growl.

"Oh don't be such a baby. I beat you fair and square and you know it."

My remark receives the Infected's standard huff and glare. Typical. I didn't let his poor sportsmanship bring me down. It had been a while since I had beaten the Hunter at one of our games, especially this one, and I was ecstatic. Miles absolutely _hated _losing Leaper Frog. I suppose it damaged his "Hunter pride" or something. It made no difference to me, I won he lost that's all that mattered.

Today is starting to look like a good day.

I get pretty caught up in my dance, so much so that I don't pay attention to my footwork. A stray object finds its way into my showboating radius, effectively ending my celebration by sending me face first to the floor. The room is instantly filled with the Hunter's crazy ass laughter, though I couldn't hear it over the sound of my weeping ego.

So much for a good day.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up Fido."

That shuts him up. The one thing Miles hated more than losing? Being called a pet name. Or just being referred to as an animal in general. If I had been someone else he would have beat the shit out of me. Instead I receive a cuff over the back of my head.

"Ow! Come on my face is in enough pain! I don't need you giving me a headache too!"

The Hunter snickers and saunters off to our bedroom, unfazed by my remark. It's nice to know I have such a caring friend. I sigh and rise to my feet, noting the object that tripped me and ruined my moment of victory. It was a clock of course; apparently we have a dozen of them conveniently placed to ruin my life. I kick the blasted thing as hard as I can into the wall and follow after Miles.

When I enter our room Miles is in the process of putting on a dark red hoodie. He had already put on a clean pair of dark cargo pants. I note a pile of dirty clothes lying at his feet.

"Damn you change fast."

The Hunter looks up at the sound of my voice and flashes a playful smirk. He opens his mouth, attempting a response.

"Ssslow." He hisses.

I get the gist of what he was trying to say.

"Oh I'm slow am I? I recall kicking a certain Infected's ass in a game where speed determines the winner." A cocky grin lights up my face. "So tell me, who's the slow one again?"

Miles rolls his eyes and plops down on my mattress, unwilling to admit defeat. I chuckle at his sulking form as I retrieve fresh clothes from our dresser.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Now go get cleaned up. At the rate we're moving we won't get to the cafeteria before it closes."

The Hunter scoops up the alarm clock by my bed and turns it around, revealing the open backside currently lacking batteries. He gestures to the inaccurate time before giving me a criticizing look.

"I'm aware it's my fault we woke up late! I won't deny it. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten that you insisted on playing Leaper Frog even though we were short on time. So why don't you get ready instead of trying to pin the blame on me?"

The Infected sighs before lifting himself off my mattress. He lets out a low growl as he quickly exits the room.

I shake my head and turn my attention to changing clothes, mentally begging for the Hunter's mood to improve in time for our lunch date with our friends. As if on cue, a loud frustrated snarl erupts from the bathroom down the hall.

That sounds promising.

For many, the noise my roommate emitted would have been quite alarming. Hell, it scared the shit out of me the first time I heard it. After a week or two, however, I quickly learned what his little outburst usually concerned.

I wasn't worried, but I pick up my pace when he lets out another shriek. I had finished putting on my jeans and was in the process of pulling on a dark grey t-shirt when his third cry echoes throughout the apartment. Aggravated, I begin to make my way to the source of the ungodly commotion. (All while still putting on a shirt might I add). I bump into the wall several times on my way to the lavatory before I finally pull the shirt over my head (apparently I'm incapable of performing the simplest tasks). When I step into the doorway of the bathroom, my suspicions are confirmed.

Standing by the sink, toothbrush in one hand and a half empty tube of toothpaste in the other is a seriously pissed off Miles. His focus is entirely on the teeth cleaning utensils, as if staring at them with the most furious expression would cause them to spontaneously combust. I glance back at the sink, noting where the rest of the toothpaste ended up.

Great, now I have even more shit to clean.

"Miles, what the fuck are you doing?"

The Hunter does not respond at first. Instead of growling or trying to speak he practically shoves the tube of toothpaste in my face. I briefly scan the object of his hatred, unsure of the problem. I read the label several times before it hits me.

"….Mint flavored."

The Infected hisses at the mere mention of the word. He then proceeds to throw the tube into the sink, causing toothpaste to splatter onto the countertop.

There are people who like mint and there are people who don't care for mint. Then there are people like Miles who absolutely _despise_ mint. The reason behind it? I have no fucking clue.

"Come on Miles! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find toothpaste these days? We're lucky to get any at all!"

The Hunter makes a noise that is somewhere between a whine and a growl as he looks from me to the paste covered sink. I sigh, unsure of a way to resolve the situation.

"Look, I spoke to the people who are in charge of supplying our rooms. They promised if they found any toothpaste that wasn't mint flavored they would make sure you got it. We just have to be patient and work with what we have."

Miles growls quietly and shrugs, as if to say "_Yeah…I guess you're right."_

"Okay, now that we got that settled let's finish getting ready."

I take up my own toothbrush which, thankfully, managed to avoid getting caught up in the Infected's mess. It isn't until after I finish rinsing my mouth that I realize Miles had not done anything.

"You alright buddy?"

The Hunter says nothing. His frustrated expression slowly molds itself into one of embarrassment as he finally makes eye contact with me. I sigh, knowing what Miles needs.

"It's okay; you'll get the hang of it one day. I don't mind helping you until then."

Miles reluctantly hands over his toothbrush and opens his my help, the Hunter had mastered most daily tasks like changing clothes and using the restroom (most awkward three weeks of my life) but there were still a few he found difficult. If it wasn't obvious, brushing his teeth is one of them. Though this was more or less standard procedure in our morning routine, Miles still felt ashamed to ask for assistance.

As I try to scrub the very back of a molar without causing Miles to gag, a small smile begins to tug at the corners of my mouth. I couldn't help but recall the first time I tried to brush the Infected's teeth. I had been absolutely _terrified_. Who wouldn't have been? I was about to put my hand in the mouth of one of the creatures that had been trying to _eat me_ since this whole mess started! The only thing that got me to calm down was when I realized he was just as freaked out as me. And after what happened to Miles before he was brought into the program, I didn't blame him for being wary of people.

I am brought back to reality when Miles gently bites down on the toothbrush, his way of saying we were done. No arguments here. I didn't mind helping him, but brushing someone else's teeth isn't as easy as brushing your own and I was glad to be finished. Miles removes the toothbrush from his mouth after I release it and proceeds to thoroughly rinse out the foul taste of mint.

I turn back to the sink and retrieve a comb from one of the lower drawers. It was about time I tried to tame my unruly bedhead. Without a proper shower, however, there wasn't much I could do and I was short on time. I fetch some deodorant and mild cologne from another drawer. I was going to have to make do with the lazy man's method for covering up poor hygiene. After applying the deodorant, I pass it to Miles and pop the top off of the cologne. Before I get any further, I feel a tug at my sleeve. I glance over at Miles, whom is giving me a rather chilling glare.

"I'm sorry man, I know you hate it but I don't have much choice."

The glare quickly turns into a pleading expression. Miles, like all Hunters, has a very strong sense of smell. Imagine sitting next to someone wearing really powerful perfume. Now imagine sitting next to seven of these people in a small room. That's how Miles feels when I apply even a small amount of cologne.

When my roommate starts whimpering, I know there's no resisting his will. I sigh and place the cap back on the container.

"Alright, no cologne. But in exchange I want you go hoodless for thirty minutes today okay?"

The Hunter appears hesitant at first, but he quickly nods after a moment of contemplation. I knew this meant a lot to him if he was willing to extend his "hoodless" exercise.

Miles, satisfied that the cologne was safely tucked away, returns to applying deodorant. Satisfied that I found a way to get the Infected to cooperate, I turn my attention to the mirror. Unfortunately, my shaggy jet black hair wasn't going to cooperate as easily as my roommate. I play around with it for a minute before giving up.

Fuck it.

I inspect the dark stubble sprouting on my chin and along my jaw line, contemplating if I should take the time to shave.

Fuck it.

As my neighbor Cassandra would say: _"Goal of looking like a total douche: reached."_

Gotta love her.

I turn to Miles to see if he had completed his morning ritual as well. We make eye contact briefly before the Hunter tries to walk out of the bathroom. I stop him, immediately detecting that he was trying to hide something. I didn't have to guess, I _knew_ what he was trying to avoid. I reach over and grab the comb off the counter top and wave it in front of the Infected's face.

"Dear Miles, it seems you have forgotten to comb your hair! Worry not; I'll gladly aid you in fixing this problem."

He growls, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm, before reluctantly removing his hood. I waste no time in tackling the dark brown tangled mass he calls hair. Thankfully, Miles doesn't struggle too much and I manage to get out the knots fairly quickly. He used to put up more of a fight, but then he realized cooperating meant less time without a hood. (That was the real reason he hated combing his hair). I inspect my work upon completion. I was more concerned as to whether or not I removed all the tangles, not if it looked great; No point as his hood would mess it up anyways. When I felt I had done all I could do, I give the signal that he may reposition his hood. Miles doesn't wait for the gesture to be complete before complying.

"There, now don't you look handsome." I coo as I pat him on the back.

The Infected rolls his eyes and emits a low hiss.

"I know man, I feel the same way. I don't really care about your appearance either, though you are a sexy beast you know that?" This earns a slight grin and scratching chuckle from the Hunter. "Unfortunately, my employers insist that I make sure you maintain proper hygiene."

A low growl rumbles from deep in the Hunter's throat. He lets out a sharp yelp as he throws his arms up in exasperation.

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

I put a hand on his shoulder and gesture towards the bathroom door.

"Look, I'll be sure to slip that comment in the suggestion box, but we don't have time to fuss with that now. What you should be thinking about is…" A mischievous smirk begins to form, threatening to give away my plan. "How you're going to have to deal with the humiliation of losing to me in a race!"

I give my roommate no time to process my challenge and bolt out the door. Miles had played dirty in plenty of our games; it only seemed fair that I return the favor.

"Last one to the cafeteria gives up their blankets for a week!" I yell back.

_"Perfect. If I win then I can finally get back the covers that little shit stole from me! Of course, if I lose…"_ I shake my head. _"NOT gonna happen. There's too much at stake."_

Turns out Miles feels the same way. A shriek echoes off the walls, signaling the true beginning of our game. Seconds later I hear several thumps, undoubtedly the sound of the Hunter leaping in hopes of making up lost ground. When I reach the living room he is but a couple yards behind me and was quickly closing the gap. Both of us, however, forgot that our living room was still fucking DESTROYED.

Miles tried taking the lead by leaping over me, but was met with an unpleasant surprise upon landing. He overshot the couch he had been aiming for and ended up skidding across the coffee table and landing in a pile of dishes and garbage. I would laugh at his screw up if I hadn't already tripped three times while navigating this deathtrap of a room. The Hunter's misfortune bought me enough time to reach the door, unlatch it, and make an attempt to put as much distance between the two of us as possible.

My confident jog turns into a full on sprint when I hear the Infected let out another angry shriek. The faster I go, the more trouble I have maneuvering through the maze of the facility. I slip several times when rounding corners, but always manage to catch myself before I can lose too much momentum.

_"Damn this slick floor! I never made it this slippery when I cleaned it! Who would have thought that the guy that replaced me would actually do a good job?"_

Apparently Miles was having just as much trouble, for I hear something slam into the wall behind me several times. I risk a look over the shoulder, unable to resist the curiosity of my roommates' progress. What I see nearly causes me to trip out of pure shock. The sounds I heard were not of Miles sliding into a wall, but propelling himself _off_ the wall. My pace comes to a screeching halt, allowing my roommate to take the lead. Very few Hunters have mastered the terrifying art of wall jumping. I myself had only seen it pulled off one other time and after that, I hoped to never see it again.

The Infected continues on for a ways before he notices that I was no longer pursuing him. Confusion causes Miles to lose focus and divert his attention away from his current course. The timing couldn't have been worse, for at that exact moment an unlucky man exits a nearby laboratory and steps right into the Hunter's path.

Had it been intentional, I'm sure Hunters everywhere would have been proud of my roommate's successful pounce.

A cry of alarm brings me back to reality, allowing me to break free of my shocked state and rush to the aid of the stunned men.

"Shit! Are you two okay?" I wheeze, still trying to catch my breath from all the strenuous running.

Miles was already in the process of helping the man to his feet, repeating garbled apologies every step of the way. The man adjusts his thick glasses before flashing the two of us a warm grin.

"Yes, we're quite alright. No need to worry yourself." He replies. "I'm just a little surprised is all, no harm done."

The man turns to the Hunter, who was still apologizing, and cuts off what feels like his fifteenth 'sorry'.

"It's okay Miles I know you didn't do it on purpose." He chuckles and gives the frazzled Infected a pat on the back. "Just try to be more a bit more careful in the future."

Miles nods eagerly and steps back to give the lanky man room to breathe. After successfully calming the Hunter, the man runs a hand through his thinning gray hair and turns to address me.

"Why are you two in such a hurry if you don't mind me asking? Are you late for another appointment?"

He knew me all too well.

"You could say that." I shrug. "We wanted to get something to eat before the mess hall shuts down."

A remarkably powerful laugh fills the quiet hallway.

"I should have known the only way you two would try to be on time for something would be if food was involved."

Miles and I exchange a look. Are we really that predictable?

"Well you trouble makers better get a move on; you don't have much time left."

"Will do!" The Hunter and I turn back to our original route. "Sorry again for the mishap Dr. Shaffer!" I call over my shoulder.

"Water under the bridge my boy! You two just be sure to eat your fill so we can avoid future 'Hunting' accidents!"

God I love old people.

As friendly as Dr. Shaffer is, he probably wouldn't like the idea of being referred to as 'old' though. Speaking of ideas, the Doctor's food comment made my mind jump to Scooby-Doo. Take a wild guess which one of us was Shaggy and which one was Scooby. What was with me and imagining my roommate as a cartoon dog?

Miles and I walk in silence for a while, lost in thought. Getting to the lunch room and having some grub replaced our game as priority. The method of reaching our destination was no longer of importance and as such, our race was forgotten.

"Something…wrong?" The Infected inquires.

Well, maybe not _completely_ forgotten.

I was hoping that my roommate had not noticed my freeze up, but I knew my luck wasn't that great. Just because the Hunter had trouble speaking and performing some tasks doesn't mean he was an idiot.

"Nah, I'm alright. I just got a bit of a head rush back there. No big deal."

Miles locks eyes with me for a moment, searching my expression. I'm a pretty decent liar at the best of times, but it hasn't ever been easy for me to fool the Hunter. It wasn't surprising that the Infected didn't seem to buy my story. I swear the guy has a built in bullshit detector. Even so, the Hunter doesn't press the matter further.

We turn another corner and I can't help but sigh in relief at the sight of the cafeteria entrance. After everything that happened this morning, err…afternoon, I had worked up an impressive appetite.

"Finally! We made it! That took way too freaking long."

Miles huffs in agreement as we walk through the mess hall doors. Only we could make a simple trip to a lunchroom so difficult.

"You go ahead and grab something to eat, I'm going to see if our friends-" I'm cut off when a long slimy appendage seizes me, completely binding my arms to my body. The following few seconds appear to unfold in slow motion as I gawk at the familiar bonds before meeting the eyes of my roommate. A powerful yank knocks me off balance, effectively bringing my defenseless form to the ground. The Hunter's horrified expression is the last thing I see before I'm forcefully dragged across the slick tile towards…

"_You have __**got**__ to be kidding me."_

"SMOKER!" I yell, finally finding my voice. "JESUS! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

* * *

><p>Don't you hate cliff hangers? %D<p>

If you want to get mad at someone, be angry with my lovely editor. :3 Chapter two was getting _way_ too long (almost 20 pages!) so I asked her if she could find a place to end it. She felt this would be the best spot. BD

Originally it was decided that this chapter would conclude after "across the slick tile towards..." but I didn't like that when I re-read it. It just didn't feel right, so I threw in that small bit of dialogue at the end. (It's not like I ruined the suspense, as it was pretty obvious what got a hold of Derek. At least, I _hope_ everyone made that connection right away...) I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, but it'll have to do for now.

Anywho, isn't it amazing that I made an entire chapter about two guys getting around in the morning and going to a lunchroom? BD I hope I didn't bore you guys too much. I just wanted to show the craziness that is Miles and Derek. XD

Also, this chapter is in present tense! *states the obvious* Chapter one was in past tense, and chapter two was originally going to continue in that fashion. However, I'm derp and kept screwing up my tenses, making it present instead of past, so I said "Fuck it. I'm re-writing everything in present tense." I'll probably go back and change chapter one to make everything right but for now...*shrugs*


	3. You Might Want to Write This Down

Miles doesn't react to my cries for help at first, the random Smoker attack throwing him off guard. It isn't until I shout again that he is freed from his stupor.

"It's okay, take your time! I'm only _literally_ approaching death right now!"

The Hunter furiously shakes his head before leaping into action. For once, I wish he actually was _leaping_, seeing as it would be really helpful in this case. Of course, this is the day Miles chooses _not_ to act like an Infected. He chases after my struggling form, flailing his arms and shrieking in panic along the way. Clearly the Hunter was _amazing_ at handling stressful situations. Then again, I guess I have no room to talk seeing as I'm screaming like a lunatic.

I'm halfway through my "good-bye cruel world" speech when the dragging suddenly stops. Have I been cut free? No, the tongue's constriction is as strong as ever. Wait…what's that smell?

I look up and meet the eyes of my attacker. Well, just the one eye seeing as the other one is hidden by a cluster of tumors. A cloud of green spores wisps into my face, which irritates my lungs upon inhalation and sends me into a mild coughing fit. I don't think I'll ever get used to that musty odor.

"Hey Vector. How's it going?"

The Smoker rolls his amber eye and lightly smacks the back of my head.

"Do you always act like a drama queen?"

My eyes widen. "Damn Vector! When did you start talking? I gotta say, I'm both proud and confused. I mean, I never imagined you would have such a beautiful voice."

This earns another, albeit less gentle, blow to the head.

"Thank you Vector. Honestly Derek, are you that much of an idiot?"

I crane my neck to see the true source of the voice and smile when I see Cassandra's annoyed expression. My neighbor looks much less frightening at this time of day, especially with her red hair pulled up librarian style. It also helped that she was wearing a dark blue tank top that showed off her tiny figure.

"Oh don't be upset Cassy, I knew it was you. I would recognize that angelic sound anywhere."

The Smoker turns to Cassandra and signs a question. She shakes her head. "I doubt he would taste good. Besides, he would probably give you indigestion."

"Ouch, I take offense to that." I feign a hurt look. "I'll have you know that there are plenty of zombies that would find me delicious."

"…Disagree." Miles hisses.

I jump slightly at the Hunter's voice, having forgotten that he was there. I look over at my roommate and meet his gaze with a quirked eyebrow.

"Smell….odd," he elaborates, "no eat."

I'm suddenly hit by a wave of laughter as Cassandra and Vector are unable to keep a straight face after the Infected's comment. Cassy's laugh was more or less normal, but the Smoker's snickering sounded like someone was trying to gag, wheeze, and cough all at the same time. I had to say, Miles had quite the competition for the "Most Bizarre Laugh" contest. Speaking of the little traitor, I wasn't sure if I should be happy or offended that he didn't consider me an appetizing meal.

Towards the end of the chuckle fest at my expense, Vector releases me and retracts his tongue. I guess laughing isn't easy to do when you have your tongue wrapped around someone. I slowly get to my feet and shoot the Hunter a look, who grins sheepishly in response.

"Miles, for that remark you are forgiven for disturbing my sleep earlier this morning." Cassandra wheezes after catching her breath.

My jaw drops in disbelief. "The hell? He gets off scot-free because he makes fun of me? I can play that game too!" I glare at the Infected, racking my brain for an insult. "Miles, your shoes are fucking stupid!"

The Hunter looks down at his footwear before growling and giving me a puzzled look.

My shoulders slump and I avert my gaze, "….I know they're my shoes."

Cassandra smirks and shakes her head. "Wow, as much as I'd hate to interrupt this powerful moment, I'm going to have to suggest we grab a bite to eat before they shut the lunchroom down."

We all nod and voice our agreement, some more begrudgingly than others, before getting in line. After making our orders, Cassandra nudges me to catch my attention and pulls me aside.

"You know, there's only one way out of feeling my wrath for your little late night incident." She chuckles. "And it's NOT attacking your roommate's fashion sense."

I sigh, mentally preparing myself for the worst. "Alright, what is it?"

She tries to appear casual, but I can see the devious look behind that innocent mask.

"I want your dessert."

Fucking. Knew it.

"What? That's freaking outrageous!" Before the apocalypse, such a request wouldn't bother me. I had never been much of a sweets lover. But, as the saying goes, you never realize what you have until it's gone. Or in this case, scarce.

She shrugs, not bothered by my outburst. "That's my price. Take it or leave it."

I groan and cover my face with a hand. Cassandra is not one to back down, so negotiating wouldn't get me very far. I could just refuse, but I knew she would make me regret it during our next training session. What to do what to do…

"Okay, I agree to your terms." She folds her arms and grins in triumph. "However, can you find the kindness in your heart to let me have one small bite before you have the rest? Please?"

Cassandra frowns and narrows her eyes.

_"Looks like I'm going to have to use the technique a little Witch taught me."_

I soften my hazel eyes and slightly raise my eyebrows. Now to make my eyes a little watery and…

"Fine! You can have a bite! Jesus, you don't have to start crying."

Nailed it.

My name is called to pick up my meal shortly after I achieve my small victory. Perfect timing. My stomach was making more noise than Miles the first time I made him take a bath. (Poor guy sounded like a dying cat). I snatch up my tray and, seeing as I was the first to get his food, am left with the honor of selecting a table for our group. It would be a simple task today, as the cafeteria was practically deserted at this time.

I plop down at the nearest table, eager to dig into my grilled fish sandwich. I'm almost halfway through my meal when the rest of the group arrives. Cassandra had chosen a fish sandwich as well. Not interested in bread, Miles opted for two pieces of fish. Vector, unable to chew food because of his tongue, had a specialized nutrient-filled shake. Miles sits down next to me while Cassandra and Vector take a seat across from us.

"Aren't you going to savor that?" Cassandra inquires.

I tilt my head. "Savor…what? The fish? We live by the ocean; I don't think we're going to run out anytime soon."

Her expression turns into one of genuine sadness. "You didn't get the notice…"

I cease stuffing my face.

_"No sarcastic retort? That's not a good sign." _I meet her eyes. "Notice? What are you talking about?"

"A notice was slipped under all our doors earlier this morning. It was an alert that our bread supply is about to run out. After this week we won't have any left."

I glance at Miles before looking down at my tray.

"We were in such a hurry to leave this morning we must have run right past it." I murmur. _"As trashed as our apartment was, we probably wouldn't have seen it anyways."_

It was hard to believe how much we take things for granted. I couldn't remember ever being without a loaf of bread, and here I was faced with the reality of not having another slice for an undetermined amount of time. To think of how much of the stuff I allowed to mold and harden…

I study the remains of my sandwich, attempting to process the unfortunate news. Cassandra takes note of my darkened mood and tries to crack a joke to lighten the situation.

"Well…" She laughs nervously. "At least now you have a topic for today's therapy session."

I take my eyes off my meal. "Therapy session?"

Cassandra looks at me in disbelief. "You forgot? You and Miles are supposed to meet your Therapist in…" She glances at a nearby clock. "One hour!"

"Are you kidding me?" I bury my head in my hands. "Shit! That means the inspectors are already at the apartment!"

Cassandra covers her face with a hand. "You didn't clean up last night's mess…did you?"

Miles shakes his head, saving me the trouble of answering.

Vector sets down his shake and pushes it aside. He tugs at his olive drab colored beanie, attempting to cover a few golden brown strands of hair, before signing a question.

"Yeah, he's pretty much screwed." Cassandra replies.

The Hunter growls in resignation and gives me a comforting pat on the back. I sigh and lean back in my chair.

"There's nothing we can do about it now. Let's just try to enjoy the rest of our lunch before Miles and I face the music." I snatch up a glass of water from my tray and raise it in a mock toast. "Here's to being a total fuck-up."

I down the entire drink in one go, doing my best to chug with a full head tilt, if only to avert my eyes from the concerned glances of the people around me.

* * *

><p>"So the game…what do you call it again?"<p>

"Leaper Frog," I reply.

"Ah yes, interesting name."

"Yeah, Miles and I are really proud of that one. See, some people call Hunters 'Leapers' and our game is a combination of Leap Frog and-" I stop when I see her blank expression. "You get the idea," I end with a nervous laugh.

"It's alright Derek; you don't need to be ashamed." She smiles. "I think some of the names you and Miles give your games are quite charming."

"_Emphasis on __**some**__."_ I think.

"Now, how often do you two play Leaper Frog?"

I internally sigh, knowing where this conversation was heading. I had been dreading it since she brought up our other game: 'Cry Uncle'. My seat creaks when I shift to get comfortable. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen. The chairs in Dr. Greene's office were almost _unbearable_. Normally there was a couch to lie on but it was currently being repaired due to a busted leg. Of course, if my apartment wasn't a trash heap I could have requested the session to take place there. (But then I wouldn't be in this awkward predicament in the first place would I?)

I meet the brilliant blue eyes of my therapist before replying, "We play it more than 'Cry Uncle', but even then it's not _that_ regular of an occurrence."

"I see…" Dr. Greene takes out her pen and begins writing in her notepad. I let my eyes wander around the office, attempting to calm my nerves. It was a very simple room, nothing like the fancy set ups one would see in the movies or on television. No water fountains or thought provoking paintings here. Just a few chairs, a desk, a couple file cabinets, and a poster of a cat to 'add character.' I was just thankful it wasn't a cheesy 'Hang in there!' poster.

When the doctor is done scribbling in her pad, she nibbles a bit on the end of her pen before tucking it behind her ear. The small teething scrapes are the only thing that distinguishes it from the puddle of grey that makes her pixie bob.

"These games are very important to you and Miles." She begins. "I know that, they're important to us too. He's gotten a lot better since being in your care and these activities are a big part of that healing process."

I nod gently, dreading the inevitable 'but' that was coming.

"Unfortunately, there are a few of your games that need to be…" she trails off.

"…put to an end?" I finish.

"I'm afraid so." The doctor confirms. "My colleagues and I agree that the games that encourage Miles to behave like a Hunter are hindering further progress. It was necessary at first because it allowed him to make a connection with you, but now that the connection has been established those games are no longer needed."

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. _"Miles is not going to like this one bit."_ I internally groan. Admittedly, I'm not too happy about it either. I knew there would be a time when the games would become obsolete, but I never thought the day would arrive so soon. Besides, I wanted to beat that little bastard in 'Cry Uncle' at least once before the plug was pulled.

"You don't have to quit immediately." Dr. Greene continues. "Just don't play as often. Come up with new games to entertain Miles. After a while, you can stop the old games altogether."

A snicker slips out before I can stop it. _"If only she knew about our other game. I wonder what she would think about Miles and I playing gay chicken."_

The Doctor misinterprets my outburst as a bitter laugh. "I'm sorry Derek, I know this isn't easy, but it needs to be done. For Miles' sake." She smiles. "And for the sake of Dr. Shaffer from what I hear."

_"Well, shit."_ I nervously scratch the back of my head. "Oh, he told you about that?"

The Doctor laughs. "It came up; after all it's been a while since anyone's been pounced around here."

"Yeah, that was an accident. We were in the middle of a-" My mind flashes back to Miles wall jumping down the hall. I can see myself locking up all over again, frozen by old memories resurfacing after so long. "race…" I trail off.

Doctor Greene narrows her eyes. "Derek? Is something wrong?"

I avert my attention elsewhere for a moment, lost in thought.

"Derek…you can tell me what's troubling you. I'm not here just to look after Miles. Your health is every bit as important as his. If you want to talk, I'm here to listen."

I meet her gaze. A minute or two passes before I finally speak.

"Miles…I never knew he could wall jump."

Doctor Greene retrieves her pen, ready to take notes. "Wall jumping...the people who captured Miles said he was capable of it. Once we brought him in he never made another attempt. Tell me, why does wall jumping bother you?"

My knee begins to bounce out of anxiety. "Before I came here, I was with a large group of survivors. We traveled from place to place, picking up rations where we could. Fending off the Infected was never much of a problem." I let out a shaky breath. "Then we ran into a pack of Special Infected…they were unlike anything we had ever encountered. They were…_organized. _Most Specials we dealt with were sloppy and attacked at random but these Infected only struck if there was a high probability of making a kill. No move they made was without reason."

The Doctor's expression is unreadable as she continues to write. "Can you remember what types of Special Infected attacked you?"

I nod. "It was like some fucked up Noah's Ark. There were two of each kind, save the Tank, Witch, and Charger." I briefly close my eyes. "I can't even imagine having to deal with _two_ Tanks during that shit storm."

Doctor Greene scribbles a few more notes before addressing me once more. "So these Infected were opportunists capable of restraint."

"No, it wasn't that simple. The Infected didn't wait for opportunities, they _created_ them. Jockeys would steer their victims into Spitter Acid, Smokers would drag their victims into a Witch to startle them, the list goes on!" I take a deep breath to calm myself. "Then there were the Hunters. If not for them more of our group may have survived. The other Infected forced us into alleyways so the Hunters could play their role: to create panic. There were only two of them. _Two_. And yet they were able to cause so much chaos."

The Doctor knew exactly where this story was heading. "The Hunters could wall jump…" She says quietly.

"They sure as hell didn't try to hide it. The little fuckers were flying all over the place, slashing at us and knocking us into shit, never actually attempting a pounce. The Hunters moved too fast and erratically for anyone to hit. We tried anyway, and that's exactly what they wanted. While we were focused on the Hunters, the other Special Infected were free to take us out one by one."

I couldn't bring myself to disclose the details of the ending, so I conclude the story there. Dr. Greene and I sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the faint ticking of a clock hanging on the wall. When she is sure that I'm not going to continue, she vocalizes her thoughts.

"Seeing Miles wall jumping has clearly uncovered something painful for you…Have you tried telling him?"

I stand abruptly and begin to pace the small room. "Yeah, that would go well. Hey buddy, would you please stop doing that thing you've spent most of your Hunter life trying to master? It gives me Vietnam style flashbacks of when all my friends were slaughtered by Infected that looked an awful lot like you!"

If the doctor was bothered by my harsh tone, she doesn't show it. Were all therapists like this? Does the ability to maintain composure come with the job or is it something you're born with? Either way, I envy how she keeps a level head. I bring a shaky hand to my forehead and quietly return to my seat.

"I'm sorry, I just…." A frustrated grunt escapes from my lips. "I thought I was over this! I've been with Miles for almost two months now! Sure I was a bit freaked out at first, that's understandable given everything that's happened, but…" I slowly shake my head. "I don't see Miles like that anymore…He's not like those blood thirsty monsters. So why is it after all this time, after all Miles and I have been through, when I saw him wall jumping all I could think was…" I hesitate, unsure if I should complete the upsetting thought. "he's…one of them."

It goes quiet once more. Well, as quiet as it can be with that infuriating ticking coming from the clock. I swear, the sound seems to get louder with each passing second. The time telling device is soon fixed with the most burning of gazes.

It's official. I. Fucking. _Hate_. Clocks.

"Derek…"

Dr. Greene's voice snaps me out of my irrational hatred and redirects my attention to the matter at hand.

"What you're feeling is not unusual. Working alongside the Infected can be quite…taxing. We've all had a loved one claimed by the infection, so it's hard not to feel some resentment and fear towards those we associate with the cause of our loss."

My eyes widen. "But Miles had nothing to do with what happened! Why would I even think-"

The Doctor cuts me off. "When a child is bitten by a dog, it is not unheard of that they develop a fear of dogs. Though it was just the one dog that caused harm, the child associates the pain and fear to the rest of the species. As such, the child avoids dogs all together, believing this will protect his/herself from future attacks. A 'Better Safe than Sorry' mindset, if you will. This is called stimulus generalization." She nibbles at her pen for a moment before continuing. "Of course, such a thing doesn't only apply to children. We do it all our lives. It can be something as simple as avoiding food that resembles something we have eaten that caused illness, or something more serious, like developing an aversion to people due to trauma inflicted by a few individuals."

Her last example hits close to home. "Like Miles…" I whisper.

Dr. Greene nods. "You and Miles have more in common than you realize. He dealt with his fair share of episodes when he first arrived at this facility. I'm sure, even now, he occasionally becomes anxious when interacting with the people here."

I let the doctor's words soak in, recalling the early days of my relationship with Miles. Fearful isn't the word I would have used to describe the Hunter's feelings towards me. It was more like…for a lack of a better word, paranoia. He was always on guard, just waiting for the moment when I would turn on him. To think that Miles may still feel that way…

_"I guess I can't really say anything after my little freak out today."_

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. "If what you're saying is true, then Miles is _much_ better at handling this issue than I am."

"Perhaps. Or maybe Miles has made more progress in healing."

Suddenly, the ceiling didn't seem as interesting anymore. I meet the Doctor's gaze, my expression voicing my desire for her to elaborate.

"Miles wouldn't let anyone near him until you entered his life. We never dreamed he would improve the way he has, and in such a short time. Derek, I don't think you understand just how important you have been in helping Miles not just conquer his fears, but regain some of his humanity."

Damn, did she know how to make someone feel important.

I turn my attention to the floor, slightly embarrassed. Receiving praise wasn't something I was accustomed to. I knew the doctor was trying to lift my spirits by pointing out these details, but my aberrant mind couldn't help but take it another way.

"Well, doesn't _that_ make me seem like an ass. I'm just the thing Miles needed to help rebuild trust in people, but he's just not _good_ enough to aid me in overcoming _my_ phobias."

Dr. Greene knew that my words were not directed at her, but were merely an expression of my frustration. She attempts to further explain her original thought process.

"Derek, you were more or less forced to change your entire mindset in a week. You went from fighting Infected, to healing them. To top it all off, you had recently dealt with a great loss and were given no time to properly grieve. It's no surprise that you have unresolved feelings. Miles had been here for almost a month before you came, and he had very minimal interaction with other people. He had the luxury of a slow transition period that you weren't able to experience."

The Doctor's logic made perfect sense. Everything changed so quickly in just a few days…I guess it was only a matter of time before shit would come back to haunt me. Then again, a lot has changed since the infection began. You would think I would have gotten used to the constant twists and turns of this fucked up new world.

I exhale quietly and lower my head into my hands. "So," I breathed, "how do we 'fix' this? It's not like we can take back pushing me into the metaphorical pool and allow me the chance to dip my toes first."

Dr. Greene's unreadable expression is briefly broken by a sad smile. "That's true; we can't undo what has already been done." She shifts in her seat. "However, looking back on the past may actually be what you need."

I arc an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

The Doctor decides to answer my question with an inquiry of her own. "Have you been keeping up with your journal?"

I sit up straight, genuinely puzzled. One of the first things I was given when coming to this facility was a journal. I was told to log all that had happened to me since the start of the infection as well as my daily thoughts and actions. Surprisingly enough, I was assured that everything I wrote would only be viewed by me. I couldn't help but ask why they were so insistent on me keeping a journal, especially when they weren't going to read its contents. The answer?

_ "…we've all been through hell and back, and many of us would rather not talk about it. Keeping it on the inside isn't a good idea though, so the next best thing is to write it out..."_

Understandably, I was confused by Dr. Greene's sudden interest in my journal. Not to mention _petrified._ There were plenty of entries in that book that I had _no_ desire for anyone else to see. If the Doctor asks to go through my writings, I don't know _what_ I'll do.

"It's been a few days since I updated it." I finally answer. "Why?"

The Doctor closes her notepad and returns the pen to its perch behind her ear. "I want you to read everything you have written so far; from beginning to end."

_"Thank God. I was afraid I was going to have to let her see…Wait, what?"_

"You want me to thumb through my old entries?" I stammer.

She chuckles warmly. "That's one way to put it. I would prefer it if you carefully looked over your logs though, not just skim."

"I…suppose I could do that…" I reply, still uncertain of the motive behind the Doctor's request. "But…what does this accomplish? Well, other than reminding me that I have crappy handwriting."

This remark coaxes out another soft laugh. "I suppose that's a good thing if it encourages you to work on your penmanship. Your comment, actually, ties in with the true goal of this exercise. Not the bit about your handwriting, but being _reminded_ of something."

It took a moment, maybe longer than the average person, but I finally understood what Dr. Greene was hoping to achieve. Even so, I was skeptical of this actually working.

"No offense but, is the solution to my problem really that simple? I just look back on my past and have a life altering epiphany?"

The Doctor shakes her head. "There is no such thing as a simple solution; that I can assure you. I don't expect you to overcome these feelings after this exercise, not completely. It's a good first step in the healing process. We will take as many steps as needed to properly address these emotions. There is no reason to rush." Her expression softens slightly. "After all, we've learned the hard way that leaping into something is not necessarily the best action to take."

I smirk at the 'leaping' comment. _"I think Miles would strongly disagree." _My mouth opens slightly, ready to ask a few more questions before I'm interrupted by the chime of the clock. Dr. Greene turns to check the time before addressing me.

"Goodness, is our session over already?" She stands, sighing. "We never seem to have enough time to discuss all that we need to…"

"Seems that way." I agree, also rising to my feet.

We walk to the door and pause in front of it, turning to each other. The Doctor tears a sheet of paper from her notebook, scribbles something on it, and hands it to me.

"Just a little reminder." She smiles, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Wouldn't want you to forget to do the exercise like you forgot to clean your apartment."

I take the slip of paper with a chuckle, tucking it into my pocket. "How thoughtful." I move to exit the room, but pause in the process of opening the door. I turn and meet Dr. Greene's eyes one last time.

"Doctor…"

She looks at me expectantly.

"Thank you…for listening."

A slight grin tugs at the Doctor's lips. "You're very welcome Derek. Thank you for sharing with me."

I nod gently before quietly shutting the door behind me. I linger at the door for a moment longer, trying to calm my buzzing thoughts. So much had been said in such a short amount of time. I was honestly surprised that I actually told Dr. Greene a part of my past. I had never been one to spill my guts to people, even if it was their job to listen. Not sure why I'm like that, I guess it makes me feel like I'm being a burden. Or, as the Doctor had once put it, society discourages men to "show emotion" because expressing one's feelings is viewed as a sign of "weakness".

Fat load of good that "tough guy" act did when the infection hit. I witnessed the "toughest" of men brake down when our precious society fell to shambles. Turns out being an emotionless husk isn't much better than being a drama queen.

Who would have guessed?

A soft growl derails my train of thought.

"You…okay?"

I look up to see Miles hovering a few feet away. I had been so lost in my moment of contemplation, that I had not noticed the Hunter's presence until he spoke. The doorknob to Dr. Greene's office had been fixed with the most faraway of stares, it's no wonder my roommate was concerned. I really should work on my spacing out issue. It's become so common it's…disturbing really.

"Yeah I'm fine, just thinking is all." I step away from the door. "The Doctor and I talked about a lot of stuff."

Miles frowns and tilts his head slightly. "In trouble?"

I shrug. "Not really. Our 'maids' are going to probably kick my ass but I think I'm in good shape as far as Dr. Greene goes."

The infected perks up, having expected the worse. His goofy grin disperses all thoughts of telling him the unfortunate news. I just couldn't bring myself to tell the Hunter that a few of our games were sitting on death row.

"Good." He sighs.

We stand in silence for a few seconds. I eventually disrupt the quiet with a rather noisy yawn followed by the popping of stretching joints.

"Well, I better head back to the room. I have quite a bit of cleaning up to do."

Miles regards me with surprise. "Now?" He whines as he looks from the Doctor's office to me. "No wait? But…I help!"

"I'm sorry Miles, they're waiting for me back at the apartment. I can't stay this time." I smile slightly, trying my best to reassure the Hunter. "Don't beat yourself up about not helping either. That mess is just as much my fault."

Of course, telling someone not to feel bad doesn't exactly work. This was apparent when I could still see a twinge of guilt in the Infected's eyes.

I put a hand on my roommate's shoulder. "Hey, if it bothers you so much you can go ahead and make it up to me now." Miles meets my gaze, waiting to hear my proposition. "Do you remember the favor I asked you to do today?" He narrows his eyes, trying to remember, before shaking his head in defeat. I smirk before wagging a finger teasingly. "Ah, how easily you forget my requests. I wanted you to go hoodless for thirty minutes today remember?"

The Hunter's eyes widen in recognition before quickly narrowing again, this time in confusion. I had asked him to go through with the "hoodless" exercise in exchange for not wearing cologne. He was probably wondering how performing this request he already agreed to was going to make up for not being involved in clean up.

"Well, I'd like for you to do it now. _During_ your session with Dr. Greene."

I swear, I could almost hear the cartoony "gulp" that followed my sentence. It was hard enough for Miles to go without a hood for an extended period of time, but to do it around someone other than me? To put it simply, I was pushing it.

Miles searches my expression, hoping that I wasn't truly serious. My well-practiced poker face, however, demolishes all hopes of that. He growls quietly before giving me a reluctant nod. Any other time, I'm sure the Infected would have put up a bigger fight. He must have been genuinely upset if he was willing to go through with this.

As if on cue, Dr. Greene opens her door and steps into the hallway. She briefly scans a file clutched tightly in her hands before turning to greet us.

"I'm ready to see you now Miles. Would you like to-" The Doctor cuts her question short when she notices the Hunter nervously wringing his hands and biting his lip. "Is everything alright?"

Miles nods and attempts a reassuring smile, which fails when it comes out looking more like a grimace.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Greene persists, clearly not buying the Infected's cover-up. "You look like you're about to be ill."

Miles looks to me, his eyes practically screaming his plea for me to reconsider the details of this arrangement. I almost backed down, truly sympathizing with my roommate's situation. There have been plenty of times in the past few months that I've had to do things I really, _really_ wish I didn't have to. A few of which, other people had the option to bail me out but didn't. So I knew damn well how Miles felt. Yet here I am, in the very position I despised, making the same decision I loathed. As much as I hate it, I finally realize just how important it is to push people past their limits.

"_It's for your own good."_ A familiar voice echoes through my thoughts.

I answer the Infected's plea with a slow sweeping motion over my head. My roommate's face falls at the familiar gesture, realizing that he hadn't gained any ground in swaying my mind. The Hunter emits a hushed whimper before turning to the Doctor while gently removing his hood.

The scene that unfolds is rather amusing. Dr. Greene, calm and collective in most situations, is unable to mask her surprise at my roommate's action. It only lasts a moment, but I am honored with witnessing the Doctor caught off guard. Her jaw is slack and eyes are widened ever so slightly. Her left hand twitches, battling with the Doctor's will to retrieve her pen and document this historic moment. Then, just as quickly as it was lost, Dr. Greene regains her composure.

"Miles…" She breathes, voice slightly wavering with excitement. "You're…going without your hood today?"

The Hunter begins to growl his confirmation, but stops, remembering that he was to talk as much as possible when attending these sessions. "Y-yeess." He chokes out. The poor guy was seriously stressing over this ordeal.

My conscious is never going to let me hear the end of this…

Ordinarily, Miles would let Dr. Greene lead the way, but he was so flustered he practically sprinted into the Doctor's office. The Infected undoubtedly wanted to get this over with, and was in no mood for waiting for any kind of prompt. The Doctor stares after him, unable to determine if the Hunter was eager or impatient, her judgment clouded by the shocking turn of events. She looks to me, perhaps hoping for answers, but is only met with an awkward wave before I turn to leave.

"Have fun you two!" I call over my shoulder.

Cue that damn laugh track.

The imaginary laughter doesn't run its usual length this time. It is cut short when my conscious, as predicted, begins its protest. _How could you do this to Miles?_ It cries. _You asked too much of him! _I shake my head.

_"If Miles is going to get better he's going to have to venture outside his comfort zone. I did what needed to be done."_

_Bullshit! _ It counters. _It's true that Miles will have to go through difficult changes, but that doesn't mean you have to be an ass about it! I mean, taking advantage of him like that? Seriously?_

_ "I'll admit, it's not the best method. But my encouragement has gotten results. Look how much he's improved since we met! The Doctor herself pointed that out!"_

_ Wow, I never thought of it that way. I mean, look how well that tough love shit worked on you! So effective._

one goes to my conscious.

_ "Good point….Even so, my actions were not made without reason. What I did will help Miles in more than one way."_

_Like?_

_ "Dr. Greene wants Miles and I to give up a few of our games because it is believed they encourage him to act like a Hunter. When I asked Miles to attend his session minus the hood, the ultimate symbol of a Hunter, it would show that Miles is indeed progressing. The argument over the games hindering progress would be rendered invalid. Thus, Miles and I can continue with the games he holds so dear."_

_ …You're still an ass._

A cocky grin creeps my face, unfazed by the retort. That is, until I realized I had literally been arguing with _myself_ the entire time.

_"Awesome, I'm a freaking lunatic."_ An aggravated sigh echoes down the quiet halls. _"Great, between the freak-outs and imaginary conversations I think I have just about all the crazy bases loaded. Looks like the Doctor has her work cut out for her." _

My mind conjures up an image of myself curled up in the corner of a padded room, arms restrained by a constricting straightjacket. I'm rocking in place, muttering to myself and occasionally breaking out into manic laughter like some Hollywood cliché. Miles is there too, for some odd reason, and appears to be enjoying our bouncy new room. He's trying to tell me something, but I can barely understand him through all his giggling. Eventually he calms down enough to let me know that I need to work on my impression of a Screamer.

…What the hell is wrong with me today?

The question of the century is pushed from my mind when the door to my apartment comes into view. My heart rate steadily increases with each step I take, the anxiety of my encounter with the inspectors finally sinking in. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. It doesn't really help. It's not until I'm a few feet away that I notice a slip of paper taped to my door. At first I think it's the alert Cassandra told me about during lunch.

_"Wait…Didn't she say that notice was slid __under__ our doors?"_

Couldn't hurt to check. I peel the paper off the door and carefully read its contents. Relief instantly relaxes my once tense muscles. It wasn't good news, but it wasn't bad news either. I could handle that.

'_Taking your busted furniture for repairs. Will be back soon to re-install cabinets as well as discuss new restrictions. Please have all garbage picked up before we return._

_P.S. If you're going to muck up your apartment, the least you can do is keep your door closed. Just because you like looking at filth doesn't mean the rest of us do asswipe.'_

I snort, trying my best not to laugh. Miles and I had been in such a hurry due to our race, none of us had thought to close the door behind us. I can just see the inspectors standing in the doorway, gaping at the carnage before them. One could only guess what went through their minds.

I scan the document once more, picking out an abnormality I didn't register during my first read through. The handwriting of the last part of the letter looks different than the rest; like someone other than the original author added his own notes. It was no mystery; I knew exactly who added that little afterthought.

"Ah, Nevets you rascal." I mutter with a chuckle, crumpling up the paper as I open the door.

When I step into the apartment, I notice right away that a good amount of my furniture had indeed been taken. The indentations in the trash covered carpet are the only signs that the place had ever been well furnished. I kick a few trampled cans and wrappers aside as I scan the room, taking a mental inventory. It doesn't take long. The TV and its stand are still intact, as well as a desk, and most of a couch. (Its cushions were missing. Funny, I don't remember messing those up…) I also note the cabinet Miles smashed into during our late night game is missing its doors. Now I know why the inspectors wrote that they were going to have to re-install a few things.

I do a double take when I see the coffee table was left untouched. After all the attention it got during our games, I was sure it would be one of the things in need of a fix-up. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at the table's durability, my shins and big toe can attest to the strength of the low lying furniture.

I make my way to the small kitchen on the opposite end of the room and retrieve a garbage bag. Popping my shoulders as I stretch, I turn to the junk yard that is my apartment.

"Alright, time to clean this hell hole." I utter in a tone less than enthusiastic.

Twenty minutes later I'm almost finished. I'm collecting trash near the desk now, pausing to occasionally put away things that are not categorized as garbage. I scoop up a few pencils and pens that were knocked off the desk and move to put them back. At the last second, I decide to put them in the desk drawer. The less crap I have that can be easily thrown to the floor the better. When I pull open the drawer and toss the writing utensils inside, I freeze for a moment. Tucked away under a few paper clips and sticky notes I spot the unmistakable, albeit plain, cover of my journal.

I slowly set down my bag of garbage and reach for the small book. My mind flashes back to the conversation with Dr. Greene. Could the answer to my problem really be so simple? No, of course not. My issues won't be waved away with a few pretty words and positive thinking. And they sure as hell won't be resolved by re-reading something _I_ wrote. Then again, my method of keeping everything locked up hasn't really worked out now has it? Perhaps I should humor the Doctor, just this once. I don't have any better ideas, so it's worth a shot.

I hadn't realized it, but during my internal argument my body had been on auto-pilot and set a course for the couch. The action didn't register in my mind until my ass was met with discomfort due to the seat's cushion-less state. I grab a blanket that had been draped over the armrest, ball it up, and place it under me in an attempt to get comfortable. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. I study the cover of the journal for a few more seconds before finally opening it. The first page is blank. Well, not entirely blank. It's the _"This journal belongs to _" _page, that I never bothered filling out. It seemed pointless really.

A minute passes. Another goes by. I'm still staring at that stupid first page, nervously thumbing its edge as I debate whether or not to turn it. The Doctor's words begin to play in my head, attempting to encourage me to continue. It almost works until I get to one particular phrase, the one that has been subconsciously holding me back.

_"I want you to read everything you have written so far; from beginning to end."_

That's just it. The beginning of my journal is what I fear. My earlier entries don't take place in the facility. I had a life before I came here. Everyone had a life before this place. Before the virus. Before everything went to shit. When I was given this book to write in, I wanted to record some of who I was before everything changed. It was painful to do, to remember what I had lost, but I knew it had to be done. As much as it hurt, the thought of forgetting everything hurt even more.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back slightly.

"_Why can't I do this? I wrote this, I know what the pages hold, it's nothing new, so why can't I bring myself to start reading?"_

I don't understand the workings of my own mind. I made these entries so I wouldn't forget, yet I want nothing more than to throw these memories away. Why do I make things so damn difficult?

Just one more question I can't answer.

That's when I get an idea. It's not the best solution, more of short-term arrangement really, but it's something that will get me started.

"_Sorry Doc, I know it's not what you asked for, but it's all I can do right now."_

I turn my attention back to the journal and flip through its pages, searching for a specific entry. What I'm looking for is dated back to the day I first met members of this facility, shortly after the loss of my fellow survivors. That's where I'll begin reading.

"Okay...let's get this over with."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Sooooo muuuuucch! D:

Such a long chapter. Not that you guys are complaining right? Was it worth the wait? (probably not XD) Sorry folks, finals got in the way. (Along with a _LOT_ of other shit that I'm not _EVEN_ going to get into.) So yeah, my lovely editor and I just recently had time to sit down and "polish" this baby. (Note that polish is in quotation. In other words, _STILL_ not satisfied. Oh Well. XP)

Anywho, do you see where this is going? (No?) I'm so damn witty! %D (Also no.)

Bah. That's all I got.

P.S. Keep an eye on my profile for info on progress updates. You know...just saying...=P


	4. A Maze with No Exit

It's been raining off and on all day. I can hear water trickling down the sides of the buildings, spilling out into the narrow alley in which I am currently residing. A shaky hand, soiled with blood and grime, one I barely recognize as my own, reaches out, searching for support. It finds what it seeks, it being the cool, damp, brick wall that aids in creating this hellish maze. I weakly lean into the structure, providing slight relief to my trembling lower limbs. My face presses against the moist surface, hungering for the alleviation the lower temperature brings to my freshly wounded features, temporary though it may be.

The light pattering of raindrops suddenly increases, not quite to the point of pouring, but much steadier than a gentle drizzle. I never move from my position against the wall, not even when icy water begins lightly cascading down the building's gritty foundation. It is uncertain how long I stay like this; how long I subject myself to these unsavory conditions. Enough time for me to become thoroughly soaked anyway. I'm chilled to the bone, shuddering with each ragged breath I take.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The rhythmic pattern of the rain distracts me from my discomfort, lulling me into a drowsy stupor. My eyelids begin to grow heavy. They flutter slightly, my subconscious' feeble attempts to ward off sleep. Rest puts me at risk. The logical half of my mind knows it. My body, however, is spent; the adrenaline from my life threatening encounter already depleted. Exhaustion has finally taken over, clouding my rationality, coaxing me into a lethargic trance.

So tired…

An abrupt splash reaches my ears, disrupting the rain's soothing lullaby. Though the noise halts my slip into unconsciousness, it is the fear of the sound's source that truly frees me from my daze. In an instant, I whip my head around in the direction of the splash, my eyes wide, scanning the alleyway for danger. I surprise myself with how quickly I enter a high level of alertness. Given my current state, I didn't believe I still had the energy. Perhaps that is why I'm still alive. Why I managed to survive.

Though if one of those things came back, I don't think I'll be alive much longer.

I spy no immediate threat, however. A few rats scrambling away from a bag is the only movement I detect.

Wait…

My battered body cries out in protest as I lunge forward without warning. I stagger toward the object, struggling under the weight of my drenched clothing. A few feet away from my goal my legs give out on me, sending me into one of the many puddles forming in the alley's uneven floor. The sensation barely registers, my mind intently focused on the item before me as I crawl desperately to reach it. I latch onto the bag when it finally comes within reach, clutching it as though it were a life line.

In a way, it was.

Within the bag was everything I needed to survive in this apocalyptic world. Rations, medical supplies, ammunition, these are but a few of the essentials I managed to compact into the weather resistant sports bag. I inspect the grey and yellow material, searching for any tears that may have resulted from our rough departure. My examination is cut short when my quivering hands suddenly lose their grip on the slick fabric, dropping the bag back into the puddle I retrieved it from. When I reach for my precious luggage, my eyes are drawn to the ripples the steady drops of rain create in the shallow pool.

Perhaps tunnel vision, brought on by desperation, kept me from seeing it before. One could even assign blame to the dim lighting of this dank alleyway. Whatever the reason, it is not until that moment that I make a horrifying discovery. The liquid pooled around my bag, around _me_, was not only rainwater.

It was blood.

I violently rear back, as if physically harmed by the fluids. My legs wobble with the effort to support the sudden weight when I abruptly rise to my feet. As I attempt to move away from the disturbing sight, I stumble over something. A sickening squishing sound directs my attention to my feet. Yet again, I had been oblivious to my surroundings. Beneath me lie the entrails of a human, a victim of the slaughter that I somehow evaded.

One of my comrades.

Suddenly I'm made very aware that the entire alley floor is littered with human remains; my fatigue, along with scent of rain and dark veil of shadows having kept me from taken earlier notice. My heart rate increases and my breathing grows more labored as I process what lies before me. All that is left of the other survivors, the people I thought of as my family, were but mutilated strips of flesh, bone, and evisceration. Their bodies, anything that could be used to identify the victims, were nowhere to be found; carried off by the predators that claimed their lives.

Dark spots cloud the edge of my vision. My once frigid body now houses an unusual heat, making my head swim with nausea. I don't recall ever moving from that spot, but when my mind begins to clear, I find myself clinging to a filthy dumpster, dry heaving painfully onto decaying garbage.

One would think I would be used to the grime and gore of apocalyptic life. I've been wading through the dead since this outbreak began. Of course, those were nameless, faceless people. They were sick with a virus that brought the entire country's population to its knees. They were diseased. Infected. No longer human. Viewing them as people was an idea that I, that no one, could afford.

This isn't the same.

These remains don't belong to the unknown. I can't pretend they weren't human. I know who they were. Their names and faces are clear in my mind.

They will forever haunt me.

I'm not given the time to dwell on my horrific thoughts. A distinct wheezing mingles with my own. I detect it immediately, quickly biting back further urges to retch. Such a sound is one of many that have been eternally branded in my mind, one that instinctively raises a red flag. My body tenses as the hacking draws closer.

Smoker.

I swiftly crouch behind the dumpster, wedging myself between a cluster of garbage cans, trying to be as silent as possible as I do so. The garbled coughing intensifies with each passing second. I frantically scan the rooftops, suspecting the abomination to make its appearance there like so many of its brethren. Instead, a dark figure emerges from the opposite end of the alley, its features obscured by the rain. The Infected's wheezing seems to be punctuated with a splash, one for each lumbering step it takes. I shut my eyes, a poor attempt to calm my rapid heartbeat, as the monstrosity slowly makes its way down the gore strewn alley.

Like a scene out of some cliché horror movie, the creature chooses to pause but a few feet away from my hiding place. The hammering in my chest only increases, causing a few of my wounds to painfully throb. After several agonizing seconds, fear and curiosity force my eyelids to open.

The Smoker doesn't appear to be aware of my presence, its attention entirely focused on the alley floor. This revelation hardly puts me at ease. As far as I know, this could be one of the very Specials I encountered just a short time ago, come back to verify that nothing survived. Perhaps they kept tabs on their prey and realized they were one short: me.

An absurd idea I admit. Any other Survivor would probably laugh in my face for suggesting these mutated freaks were capable of higher thought. Hell, I would too. But after today, after everything I've seen, I'd believe just about anything.

I wearily study the Smoker, attempting to decipher its odd behavior. Its dull, yellow eye lazily scans the ground beneath its feet, searching for something. Is it tracking me? Christ man, don't _think_ like that. I mean, how could it? We're in a city for fuck's sake, not some vast wilderness. I can't exactly leave a trail of footprints or broken twigs. The only other reasonable method that comes to mind is tracking by scent. Of course, with the rain and putrid garbage I've nested in, I doubt the bastard will have much luck there.

Then again, there is always the possibility that it spots me.

The Smoker bends over slightly, but pauses when its drenched, unkempt hair creates a veil around his face, obscuring his vision. A frustrated growl gurgles from deep within the Infected's diseased throat. He bats at the matted clumps, attempting to clear the obstacle from his line of sight. Just as the creature conquers the annoyance, he backs into a metal trash can opposite me, sending the lid to the concrete with a loud clang. Startled, the Smoker whirls around and delivers a powerful strike to the garbage container, creating an ungodly commotion as ringing metal echoes throughout the narrow space.

I hold my breath as the lanky monstrosity leans down to inspect his loud metallic prey. A small part of my mind feels relief at what I just observed. This Smoker is definitely not like the Infected to which my group met their end. Its actions show me that it isn't very intelligent, not much more than your average Infected anyway. The wheezing bastard must have been drawn here by the dissonance of gunfire and screaming, which brings me to my next concern. How much longer until I have more company? I'm unsure of the exact time that spans between that horrific event and now, so there's a chance I'm looking at a straggler. Of course, there's an equal possibility that the Smoker is but the first of many. Either way, the racket created by that hacking moron is sure to attract more attention. I can only hope that my first theory proves correct. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, the rain will aide in deterring any nearby Commons.

"_If I was lucky, none of this would have happened."_ I think darkly.

A labored snort derails my train of thought. I return my focus to the Smoker, whom seems satisfied that the trash pail was not going to get back up. The awkward creature attempts to rise, but halts when something else catches its attention. It drops down to a squat and reaches for an unknown object, previously concealed behind the garbage can. I gently crane my neck, trying to see what piqued the Infected's interest. My shifting and stretching is all but in vain, the Smoker's body, along with the elements, providing the perfect barrier between myself and the unknown item.

When the Infected eventually turns with his prize, I immediately regret my curiosity. There, clutched in its hands warped by growths and disease, is the mutilated remains of a human arm. The appendage shows evidence of being severed at the elbow; part of the ulna, along with a few fingers, was missing altogether. The damage was so severe, if not for the thumb and remaining phalanges I doubt I would have been able to identify what the Smoker was holding.

A blessing I was not privileged.

Ignorance of anatomy, however, wouldn't protect me from the revolting sight. Anyone could see that the blight ridden beast now clung to flesh and bone, much too large to have belonged to a stray animal.

Abhorrence clashes with pure malice as I watch the creature study its find. This Smoker was a scavenger, picking away at scraps left behind by Infected more capable of making a kill. Seeing further desecration of my fallen comrades suddenly fills me with a rage that threatens to cloud my rationality. I want nothing more than to leap from my hiding place and dismember this monster like its brethren did to my family. The pack of Specials that slaughtered my group was probably long gone, seeking revenge was impossible, even if I wasn't in such a vulnerable state. My mind was already trying to convince itself that killing the Infected before me was the closest thing I had to avenging the lives of the deceased.

Soft squeaking suddenly emanates from the trash can concealing me. The Smoker perks at the sound, pivoting its head as it tries to locate the source of the noise. My blood runs cold when the creature's attention finally settles on my hiding place. He doesn't move; just stares in my direction with a sickly, unblinking eye. The beating in my chest grows into a chaotic, rapid pace, seemingly increasing with each passing second. I dare not shift in the slightest. There was still a possibility that I had not been spotted and I wasn't about to ruin my chances of being overlooked with premature panic.

A gentle rustling briefly joins the steady squeaking. I allow my eyes to slowly trail to the top of the garbage container when I detect movement in my peripheral. Materializing from the decaying filth is a surprisingly plump rat. It swipes at its face in a lazy attempt at grooming before scurrying to the trash can's rim. I watch the rat sniff at the air for a moment before I return my gaze to the lanky scavenger. The Infected's focus is now solely on the rat, its eye attentively following the animal's every move. I feel no relief at this observation. Sure the rat is the Smoker's current interest, but if he decides to walk over here and claim this new prey there is no doubt I will be discovered.

The scraggly rodent carefully lowers itself head first over the side of the wastebasket's rim until it feels confident enough to drop to the filthy alley floor. It rises slightly to balance on its hind legs as it takes in the scents of its surroundings. My heart is swiftly seized by an icy chill when the chubby mammal takes a few steps toward my position.

"_No no no! Shit! Stay away from me!"_ I mentally swear, willing the inquisitive animal away with all my might. I'm not bothered by rodents, but, as previously stated, the rat's presence put my life in jeopardy.

I have to restrain myself from audibly sighing when the rat redirects its course, turning to scurry out into the alleyway. The misfortunate creature only just emerges from the cluster of garbage cans when the Infected makes its move. I nearly jump at the all-too-familiar slurp of a Smoker's tongue and can't help but cringe at the rodent's pitiful squeal. The rat cries in alarm for a few more seconds before a sickening snap silences it for good.

It's at that moment I'm reminded the danger the Infected pose. This Smoker may not be clever, but it's still fully capable of killing. In my despair, I had almost forgotten that. I can't allow my emotions to get the better of me, or I _will _get myself killed.

I now regard the diseased man with a clearer mind. No longer do I urge to blindly lash out at the Smoker. Doing so will not change anything, except, well, my status of being among the living. I will patiently wait for the freak of nature to move on, all the while planning for possible worst case scenarios. That way, if I am exposed, there is still hope for my survival.

I have not come this far to die now.

As if feeding off my new found determination, the rain starts to pick up. The Smoker, irritated by the unpleasant conditions, growls menacingly before shrieking his displeasure to the sky. I watch as the lanky man awkwardly stuffs his kill along with the severed limb into the folds of his clothes; a desperate yet feeble attempt to keep his food dry. After securing his find, the abomination wastes no time in getting to his feet before quickly hobbling down the alleyway, in the direction I had come from. I watch until the Infected disappears, its form completely enveloped by the torrential rain.

I sit there. Waiting. Listening and watching for signs of the Smoker's return, or the appearance of any other Infected. The precaution seems pointless, the weather making it near impossible to see or hear anything but precipitation. Eventually, the frigid rain forces me to take the risk and abandon my cover. I stumble forward and collapse on the ground, my muscles unable to cooperate after being stuck in such an awkward stance for so long. My arms tremble pathetically as I strain to push myself into a sitting position. The wounds covering my body voice their objections, painfully reminding me of their existence. I ignore them as best as I can, determined to get to my feet. Upon standing, I turn sharply and rush to my next goal.

My bag.

I scoop up my possessions as I pass, forbidding my pace to falter. The sudden weight causes me to struggle at first, but I quickly adapt and continue down the alley where the Smoker originally emerged. My labored breathing and sloshing footsteps seem to echo, even with the heavy pounding of rain. As irrational as it may seem, I was somewhat thankful for the extra noise. Yes, it was possible the sound would draw attention. I was aware of that. But the mentally exhausted part of my mind, which was very much dominant at this point, viewed the commotion as a cover, not a threat to my safety. It protected me by blocking out something else.

The thought of what lay beneath my feet.

* * *

><p>A violent shudder rips me from my restless slumber. I jolt into a sitting position, curling into a ball as another series of shivers wrack my body. It's dark. Confused, I blink rapidly as I attempt to focus on my surroundings. I wait patiently for my vision to adjust.<p>

It never does.

A painful anxiety begins to build in my chest. I can't see anything, not even my own hand waving in front of my face. For a brief moment I fear I have gone blind. I shake my head, as if doing so will rid me of such thoughts, before outstretching my arms and moving them in a sweeping motion. One of my hands connects to something solid, a wall. I use the structure for support as I carefully get to my feet. Slowly, I feel along the wall as I move, searching for any clue as to where I am. For some reason I am having trouble remembering what happened after my run in with the Smoker, my mind plagued with an unpleasant fogginess.

After a short time of shuffling my hands meet with something cool and metallic. I lightly tap on it, feeling the vibrations and listening for anything odd. It wasn't solid, that much I could tell, but what was it? I study the object, not visually of course, but by touch. The surface was flat though not perfectly smooth. Horizontal ridges cut into the metal in an evenly spaced pattern. I explore the wall like object, eventually reaching the bottom where I feel a protruding object.

A handle?

I finally piece together what I had been inspecting. It was a door, a _garage_ door. Then again, its small size would likely indicate it was more like the doors one would see on a storage unit or in a store's back room used for loading trucks. I pull up on the handle, but pause when my exhausted body cries out, warning me not to agitate my injures. My compromise is to lift the door but a few inches, allowing a dull light to filter into the room.

I had guessed correctly. Glancing around, I quickly determine that I am in a storage room. Fully loaded racks as well as pallets of tightly wrapped objects are stacked neatly along the wall opposite me. A familiar sight draws me away from the loading bay: my supplies. I find my bag lying open on its side, its contents spilled haphazardly across the floor. Soiled bandages, along with other medical utensils, created a sort of net on top of my med kit. I brush aside the mess and inspect the inside of the kit.

Nothing.

To my left I notice a pile of drenched clothing, ones I recognized to have just worn. I look down at myself and notice my new attire. A slightly over sized grey and white workout shirt hangs on my frame, making me look a tad malnourished. The grey sweatpants with a fully taut draw string add on to my underweight appearance. My poorly fit ensemble is complete by a pair of plain black socks. I vaguely recall packing this into my bag after raiding a sporting goods store a few days prior. Never would have thought I would need it so soon. I gently tug at the shirt, attempting to adjust it when I notice something on my arms.

"_Well, that explains where my supplies went."_

My limbs are very sloppily bandaged; loose in some areas while constricting in others. The sheer amount seems unnecessary. In fact, my arms are practically _mummified_ with the stuff. Still, it didn't account for all the missing bandages and gauze. I decide to check the rest of me, curious of the damage. My torso and legs are more or less the same, poorly patched up cuts and wounds with the new addition of ugly attempts at stitching. It's a miracle I'm in one piece, though I'm sure if my injures aren't properly attended I'll be looking at some serious infections.

I kneel and begin rummaging through my scattered supplies, hoping that there was _something_ left I could use. A white pill bottle catches my eye. I scoop it up, noting with disappointment the light weight of the container, indicating emptiness.

"_Wait…there were still several pills left last time I used this…"_

That's when it all starts coming back. I remember running in the rain, looking for shelter. At some point I nearly collapsed from the agony of my wounds, my adrenaline finally failing me. I took something for the pain and pressed on when I was able. After finding my current residence I striped down, took more medication, and began treating my injuries. Most of that process is a complete blur; I don't even remember putting on clothes before I fell asleep.

I roll the bottle around in my hand, turning it so I may read the back label. My eyes widen and I curse under my breath. It's a wonder I didn't overdose on this shit. I'm lucky I even woke up.

I silently scold myself, angry for doing something so fucking stupid, before tossing the empty container away. My judgment seems to be distinctly lacking in recent days. It's only a matter of time before it screws me over. I've been lucky so far, but I can't afford to rely on that anymore. I need to think my next actions through.

It's time to make a plan.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Damn, total mood change wouldn't you say? Derek's past is looking pretty shitty so far.

Anywho, I got yet another case of Chapter-too-damn-long-itis and had to split this bugger in two. I wanted to post another long update, but I was getting frustrated with how long it was taking me to work out the ending. I was at the point I was just about to say 'screw it', slap on a few cruddy sentences and post it, but managed to come to my senses at the last minute.

Which would you prefer? One long chapter with a terrible conclusion or two decently developed chapters of a shorter length? Hopefully quality over quantity was your choice too. Hell, when you think about it the 'two chapter' deal will have both by the time I'm finished with 'em.

Isn't that worth the wait? ;)

P.S. Smokers are awesome and rats are teh bestest. Please don't hurt me. (So smooth.)


	5. Alone with a Fragile Mind

Nothing to the left, nothing to the right, nothing along the rooftops…

It's clear.

Shouldering my bag, I lightly jog across the empty street, being careful not to create too much noise lest something be nearby. Once on the other side, I drop behind a couple of parked cars and warily scan the path to my next goal.

Nothing to the left, nothing to the right, nothing along the rooftops…

It's clear.

This process, though slow going and repetitive, is necessary for my survival. I remember doing this a lot before I met other survivors. It became second nature. It had to, or I would never have lasted as long as I have. Being alone so suddenly is jarring. I had gotten so used to having an extra pair of eyes to watch my back that I almost forgot how to travel by myself.

I swiftly duck behind a trashed newspaper stand when I hear something. I wait a moment, trying to ignore the hamming in my chest as I listen to my surroundings. I sigh, realizing I had only heard the echo of my own footsteps, and continue on my way.

I hated this. I was on edge. I felt so weak, so exposed. Every time I heard something other than my arduous breathing I nearly had a fucking heart attack. It's been so long since I felt this uneasy. I mean, it's impossible to feel _truly_ relaxed in this new world, but when I was with my group, my _family_, I rarely experienced such anxiety. Anytime a horde charged us I welcomed the challenge. Now, a single Common was enough to send me into a panic.

Pathetic.

A few minutes later, I stumble across a vehicle with its passenger and driver doors ajar. I cautiously peer inside, making sure an unpleasant surprise wasn't awaiting me, before slipping into the driver's seat and closing both doors as quietly as possible. Leaning back in the leather chair, I let out a ragged breath I didn't realize I was holding.

My reason for entering the car was not for seeking transportation. The vehicle was to act as my temporary shelter while I took a moment to rest. I could have curled up in an empty dumpster in one of the many alleyways, but after what I went through I refused to allow myself to be caught in a narrow space. The car has its risks as well, but my new found aversion to alleys greatly affected my final decision.

I briefly examine the car's interior, checking the glove box, middle console and back seats for anything useful. My findings aren't worthwhile, just a few cruddy CDs, a couple napkins, and several packets of left over condiments from various fast food restaurants. I do, however, pocket a pair of sturdy work gloves that I retrieved from, you guessed it, the glove box. You never know when they may come in handy. After I complete my search, I decide to take the time to inspect my supplies. It's something I do at each break point, to ensure nothing important is left behind. A regular procedure, so I may backtrack and perform a retrieval if the item is essential.

First, I choose to look over my Magnum, making sure it is loaded, clean, and free of debris. This was the only fire arm I had left and I needed to make sure it was in full working order. It isn't much, but I still silently praise myself for having the hindsight to put an extra weapon in my bag.

Next up: my 'belt'. With my current clothing, I didn't have much in the way of securing items. Luckily, I found a way to rig the belt from my old attire to hold what my sweatpants didn't allow. The set up looks ridiculous, I admit, but appearances are the least of my concern. I set my gun on the dashboard and begin taking inventory by mentally citing off the names of the various objects strapped to the belt hanging awkwardly on my hip, tapping them lightly as I do so. Pipe bombs? Check. Molotovs? Check. Hunting knife? Check.

We're good.

Now for the pouches of my coat. I gently ease out of my hooded black and charcoal grey jacket, hissing as I feel a slight tug on a few of my stitches. Ignoring the dull pain, I neatly lay the coat in my lap, arranging it so I may have easy access to its pockets. I shiver at the sudden cool air, fighting the urge to immediately retrieve my covering. The weather at this time of year wasn't that bad, but I had lost a considerable amount of blood in the past twenty-four hours, causing me to be susceptible to the cold. I was fortunate to have found this jacket back in that storage room, it helped make this trip bearable.

Ammunition? Check. Lighter? Check. Road flares? (Surprisingly useful despite what one might think.) Check. Recently obtained gloves? Check.

We're good.

With the bulk of the easy-to-misplace items accounted for, I decide to look over one final detail. One that many don't think to check: shoe laces. Yes, it may seem idiotic, but a surprising amount of people have met their end to something as simple as untied laces. If you're going to wear laced shoes in the zombie apocalypse, you damn well make sure they're tied up nice and tight.

I tug at the strings and wriggle my toes, testing the snugness of my new footwear. My other shoes, utterly soaked and caked with filth, now reside within my sports bag. Suddenly, I find myself grateful for the replacement pair, realizing how miserable it would be to continue my journey in sopping wet shoes. To think I almost didn't pack them…

_"Derek, __what are you doing? Aren't you going to get something?"_

"_I don't really see any need to. These shoes are holding up just fine." I look down at my feet, rocking in place. "Besides, that just gives me more crap to carry. Not worth it in my book."_

_She regards me, her face devoid of expression. "What size do you wear?"_

"_It's okay I don't need-"_

"_What. SIZE?" her tone left no room for argument._

_Twelve I told her. She turns to the shelves behind her, scanning for my size. A few moments later, a box finds itself being thrown in my general direction. I scoop it up and peer inside, my face scrunching up at the contents._

"_Good lord what am I looking at? These have to be __the __**fugliest** shoes I've ever seen." That's something coming from me. I'm not that picky about my footwear, but this was something else. I recognized them from an advertisement I had seen; a new line of hodgepodge abominations that were supposed to become popular because of their quirky appearance. They never did._

_She grins at my reaction, enjoying my obvious disgust with her pick. "Beggars can't be choosers hun."_

"_That line doesn't work if the person in question didn't want anything in the first damn place." I retort._

_A laugh, one I'm not often privileged with hearing. "Load up Stubble. I'd love to continue our winner-less debate but we need to keep moving." She turns to leave. "If you'd like, I'll give you time to try on your new shoes. There's no better way to break 'em in than running from a horde."_

_I roll my eyes and chuckle, both at the familiar nickname and the mental image her little joke provides. "I think I'll pass. Though when I think about it, I doubt any zombie would approach me if I chose to wear these hideous things."_

"_Zombies don't give two shits what you look like Stub." She snorts. "If they did, your scraggly ass wouldn't need those shoes to keep 'em at bay." Her playful smirk betrays her tone. "I don't care what you decide to do, put 'em on or pack 'em up, either way I need you to meet me outside in two minutes. No later, or we __**will** __leave without you."_

_Somehow, I don't doubt it._

_I shake my head, grinning, as I watch her disappear around the corner. Removing the eye sores from their box, I quickly unzip my bag and arrange my supplies to accommodate for the new additions._

"_Can't ever say no to you, eh Ovah?"_

A low rumble breaks the vivid memory. I lean forward in my seat and glance out the window. The sky, a light overcast before, was considerably darker. More rain was on the way. Fantastic. I retrieve my jacket and carefully slip it on. After securing everything on my person, I double check to make sure everything else was where it should, be it in my bag, pockets, or, in the case of my weapon, my hand. Satisfied, I ease open the driver's side door and quietly slide out. I could remain in the vehicle, wait for the storm to pass, but I desperately needed medical supplies. Besides, there was no way of knowing if or when the rain would begin or how long it would last. It was necessary to take the risk; I needed to make as much progress as I could before the weather made it impossible.

Crouching behind the car door, I perform another sweep before stepping into the open street.

Nothing to the left, nothing to the right, nothing along the rooftops…

It's clear.

Just like that, the process begins anew. This time however, I'm moving a little faster. I don't like not being as thorough, but given the circumstances, I don't have much choice. As I progress, I start to notice the surrounding area seems to be unusually empty. It's been roughly two months since the Infection started, so understandably the numbers of Infected and Survivors alike have dwindled. Even so, this once heavily populated region shouldn't be _this_ deserted. Hordes are still pretty common, even today, so it strikes me as odd that I haven't had to avoid one at all.

A bright flash of lightening causes me to jump. I look to the sky as a low rumble fills the air. I watch a few more flashes in the distance, counting until I hear the threatening growl of thunder. The storm's fast approaching, I need to keep moving. As I slink around the wreckage of a couple automobiles, I dully wonder if the Infected's absence was due to the oncoming weather. Past experiences reminded me that Commons weren't, well, as common when it rained. Of course, a single drop hasn't fallen today, so where are they?

I pause at the sight of a thoroughly demolished fire escape, shuddering at the thought of what may have caused that damage. A Tank? Undoubtedly. Perhaps the heavily warped beast is still nearby. Maybe that's why I haven't stumbled across any Infected so far. Commons aren't bright, but even they know better than to stick around when one of those car-tossing muscle heads appear.

Suddenly, I miss worrying solely about hordes.

I cautiously approach the twisted pile of metal, something of interest having caught my eye. It was a pole, part of the railing that had broken off. I pick it up, testing the weight and attempting a swing. I wince with the effort, but I knew having a melee weapon would prove useful, making the mild discomfort worth it in the end. Before turning to leave, I holster my Magnum, deciding the blunt object would be the better choice for now. There may not seem to be any Infected around, but if I do come across one and have to kill it, I want the encounter to be as quiet as possible. The fire arm would draw too much attention, and that's the _last_ thing I need in my current state.

My thoughts prove to be the ultimate jinx. When I round yet another obstacle, I spy two Commons lumbering by an overturned concession stand. I freeze in my tracks, not daring to make another move. Luckily, the Infected in question were facing the opposite direction and had not noticed my presence. Taking advantage of my good fortune, I lightly trod over to the nearest Common, being careful not to make a sound, and bring the heavy pipe down hard on the Infected's skull.

A sicken crack, a pitiful squeal, and it's over. Before my first victim even hits the ground, I turn and deliver a powerful swing to the remaining Common. In that brief moment our gaze meets and I swear I can almost see a flicker of surprise within its diseased eyes. Another sickening crack, a yelp, though not as pitiful, and the last threat is snuffed out. I perform another sweep of my surroundings, my pose not unlike that of a Meer Kat, and slink cautiously across the street. The gashes along my shoulder begin to throb, protesting my brief skirmish with the weak Commons. I ignore it the best I can, silently swearing at my seemingly hopeless situation. Any move I make just worsens my gradually declining status.

Several minutes pass and I only encounter one other Common. Though I'm grateful for the distinct lack in numbers of Infected, my nerves are about shot by my steadily increasing anxiety. It's bad enough I'm in shitty condition with equally shitty weather on the way, the last thing I need is to give myself a damn panic attack with all my paranoid thoughts. Where the hell was everyone? Why haven't I seen any Specials? These are but a few of the questions constantly barraging my mind. The answer eventually comes to me in the form of a sound. One that my group and I had not heard for weeks.

Gunfire. From _other_ Survivors.

No, it can't be. I had heard thunder, that's all. There's no way there are other Survivors around here. I listen for a moment more; to assure myself it was a mistake. The distinct discharge of a weapon sounds over the low rumble of thunder, effectively discarding all doubt.

At first, I am paralyzed with shock. It's been so long since the start of the Infection. At this point you were either in a safe zone or dead. Up until yesterday, my group had been the exception. Most people had desperately fought for the chance at evacuation in the beginning, myself included, but a few of us, especially carriers, found these supposed safe havens a nightmare. In the end a group of my fellow survivors and I decided to take our chances out here among the Infected. We came across others like us at first, but as time went on the encounters become fewer and fewer and, eventually, non-existent. I never thought I'd see other people again, and then today, just after the demise of my family, I encounter more survivors.

A blessing or a cruel joke, honestly I can't say.

My feet start moving without my realizing, carrying me in the direction of the commotion. I'm oblivious to my surroundings. No longer do I pause at every corner, scan every roof top. Caution is abandoned in favor of pouring all my focus into reaching the other survivors. I desperately try to pinpoint the struggle's origin, the gunfire's relentless echo off the surrounding buildings making it damn near impossible. I turn down street after street, whipping my head around furiously as I plot my next move.

The rumble of thunder becomes more frequent and mingles with the discharge of weapons, creating a horrid dissonance that amplifies as I draw closer to my goal. Moments later I'm able to pick out the voices of the survivors in peril. Two? Five? Nine? I give up counting when I'm unable to tell human cries from Infected. After weaving through many streets, I find myself alongside a deserted highway. Well...it _was_ deserted last time I came through here.

I now know what happened to the other Infected.

A caravan of seven vehicles is hopelessly surrounded by a massive swarm of Infected, both Common and Special alike. Groups of Survivors are perched on a few of the automobiles, firing madly into the persistent horde while the rest take positions on ground level. Orders are shouted, formations come together and quickly fall apart, it's simply chaotic. At least, at first glance. The Survivors look unorganized, panic stricken even, but as I watch the scene unfold I discover their strategy. Anytime the Infected get too close to a vehicle, a group quickly rushes in, as if defending, and then just as swiftly takes off, all the while making as much noise as possible. The Commons pursue, their interest piqued by such loud mobile prey, only to be mowed down by those stationed on the automobiles.

It was brilliant. Like a Killdeer feigning injury to lure a predator away from its nest. Of course, in this case, the babies killed the predator once its attention was diverted. A great tactic, but the sheer number of Infected is too great. One slip up and the Survivors will find themselves quickly overwhelmed. A slip up or...

"Shit!" A Survivor cries, leaping from his post upon a dented ambulance. "Incoming Tank!"

Yes, Tank is an acceptable synonym for variable. Among other things.

An old rusty pick-up truck barrels through the air before flattening a small group of unlucky Infected. The battered vehicle rolls several yards, narrowly avoiding the Survivor's caravan as it smashes into the flimsy shell of a toll booth. All eyes redirect from the projectile to its source as the lumbering behemoth issues a challenging roar from a top the wreckage of several automobiles. The beast's invitation is accepted, the response being a barrage of bullets.

Interestingly enough, the Tank doesn't immediately charge in a fit of rage like manly of its meat-headed brethren. Instead, it retreats behind its twisted metal stage, as if taking cover. The Survivors pause briefly, confused by the hulking creature's uncharacteristic behavior, before darting about madly as vehicle chunks of various sizes begin raining down. From my position, I could see the twisted monstrosity's actions. It was ripping apart the surrounding cars, turning them into readily available ammunition.

I didn't understand why the abomination went through the trouble at first, but when I really thought about it, the strategy made sense. A fully intact vehicle would cause serious damage if it hit its mark, that much is obvious, but using such a heavy weapon has its fair share of flaws. Picking up and then holding the automobile, even for a brief time, leaves the beast vulnerable. And if the target is too far away, the car can be easily dodged. If the bulky creature were to, however, throw multiple, lighter (though still quite damaging) objects, then his victims would have to constantly dodge and be unable to return an efficient retaliation.

The revelation hits me just after I complete my thought. I swear furiously under my breath at the misfortune of encountering yet another one of _them_. A Special Infected unlike the rest, one that is organized and can formulate effective strategies. One that is more powerful and intelligent than the rest.

_'Apex.'_

That name seems appropriate. Apex predators are at the top of the food chain, and I think it's a fair argument that this twisted mass of muscle and the Infected that wiped out my family fit in that category.

Just as I predicted, with the Tank's interference the Survivor's order instantly falls apart. Though a considerable amount of the Infected had fled with the Apex's arrival, enough remained to further dampen the human's chance of victory. The Commons quickly swarm several of the vehicles, bashing and clawing at the sides, determined to reach the Survivors on top. The groups on ground level are beginning to dwindle, the Tank and persistent horde proving to be too much.

Desperate cries break free from the chaotic dissonance. Conflicting commands ring out. Calls of a depletion of ammunition send many into panic.

_'Fall back!'_ I mentally shout. _'Get the hell out of there!'_

Why won't they abandon their vehicles? Reliable transportation can be a wonderful thing to have, sure, but it wasn't worth getting killed over.

I study the line of automobiles, trying to determine their value. That's when I notice something, a detail I missed when I first laid eyes on this brutal scene. Most of the vehicles appear to be civilian, but the rest bare the symbol of C.E.D.A and the military. I finally understood the motives of this group.

Supplies. They're transporting supplies to the safe zones.

Dereliction was not an option. Failure not only endangers the lives of these people, but all those that reside within the safe zones.

I begin to shudder with frustration. To say my opinions of C.E.D.A and the military are low is a major understatement. After what they did to the other Carriers, after what they nearly did to me and my family, I owe them nothing. However, there are other people, many innocent to the atrocities committed, that would be affected if this group could not complete their mission.

"But what can I do?" I mutter. "Even if I was in pique physical condition, I'm just one fucking guy."

I absentmindedly pat at a few of the objects hanging from my belt as I contemplate my next move. Make a plan? There's no time for that. The longer I wait the less of a chance I have at success.

I'm only left with one option.

Lightning branches across the sky, greatly illuminating the chaos before me. The swiftly following rumble becomes my cue. A crashing wave of adrenaline permits me to sprint from my hiding place as I free a pipe bomb from my belt. I call out a warning as loud as I am able and toss the device just outside the caravan's radius. The ear piercing tone of the bomb fills the air, sending the Commons into a terrifying rage. They lock onto the rapid blink of the pipe bomb's red light and scramble over each other, desperate to reach the offending device and silence it. I change direction as I prepare another pipe bomb, not bothering to watch the obliteration of the swarm. Though a boom of thunder drowns out the blast, the dull thuds of raining evisceration is evidence enough of their demise.

I voice another warning as I toss my final pipe bomb on the opposite side of the caravan. The device just leaves my hand when my arm is seized by the tongue of a Smoker. I cry out in pain as it roughly yanks me off my feet and proceeds to drag me, the unforgiving pavement ripping at my stitches. A Common, attracted by my outburst, makes a lunge for my struggling form. I clumsily beat it away with the metal pole still clutched in my free hand before ditching the blunt object in favor of frantically attempting to reach my hunting knife. I'm just about within the Smoker's reach when I finally release the knife and slice through the slimy appendage. The Smoker howls in frustration and takes a swipe at me as I move in to finish it off with my blade.

I quickly duck away after slitting the creature's throat, hoping to avoid the bulk of the offensive spores released upon death. Though I manage to steer clear of most it, a powerful gust of wind exposes me to enough to throw me into a mild coughing fit, forcing me to briefly lean against a car until I regain composure. I curse my pathetic state yet again as I turn back in the general direction of the Survivors.

A low, threatening growl returns me to high alert. I look up in time to see a Hunter perch on an overturned minivan just to my left. It emits a chilling shriek as it crouches and quickly lunges before I can attempt to flee. I bring down my hunting knife as I side step the monstrosity, embedding the blade in its back. It cries out in agony and lands in a crumpled heap a few feet away. I hastily pull my Magnum from its holster as the Hunter struggles to face me. Its furious snarls end with a whimper when three well aimed shots hit their mark.

After the Hunter's lifeless body collapses onto the street, I rush to its side and retrieve my knife. I hurriedly reattach the blade to my belt, not bothering to clean it, before a shrill cry catches my attention. Though my pipe bombs had made a significant dent in the Infected population, the other Survivors were still having difficulty protecting the vehicles. My assistance might have been enough if they didn't have to constantly dodge the Apex Tank's projectiles.

_The Tank..._

I begin running at a low crouch, weaving in and out of the sea of demolished automobiles, picking off any Infected that draws too close with my Magnum. It was obvious what needed to be done. With the Apex Infected gone, the other Survivors have a chance to turn this around. From their angle, they can't get a clear shot of it, and with it constantly barraging them with metal scrap they can't gain any ground.

I'm the only one with the perfect position to take it out.

I halt but a few car lengths away from the rampaging beast, taking cover behind the ajar door of a battered hummer. As I catch my breath, I take a moment to study the monster I was seconds from facing. Appearance wise, it seemed like any other Tank. Though when I looked closer, I noticed its overall muscle mass was slightly more evenly distributed throughout the body. The legs definitely had more bulk, enough that the Apex could probably remain bipedal much longer than its cousins. The upper body wasn't as large as most of the Tanks I have seen, but the muscles seemed more...defined.

The Apex abruptly turns, causing me to flinch, and thunders over to a mostly intact taxi cab. It effortlessly lifts the automobile and carries it back to its makeshift shield of vehicles, where it begins to methodically disassemble the former source of public transportation. First, it removes the wheels, then the doors, and eventually the Apex Tank just tears the car into similarly sized chunks until there is nothing left of the origin form.

My eyes widen as it lifts the pieces and turns back to the caravan. It doesn't immediately start wildly chucking parts like I originally believed. Like how I _hoped_. The Apex briefly peers around its protective wall, searching for a target, and quickly takes aim.

Instead of dealing with a bulging abomination with limited intelligence and mobility, I'm faced with an efficient creature developed more physically and mentally than any Tank I've encountered. Like the one that took down my family.

And I'm going to be fighting it alone.

I reload my Magnum with shaky hands, the fear of what I was about to attempt finally catching up to me.

_'This is suicide!'_ My inner voice screams. '_How the fuck am I going to kill a Tank, an _**_Apex_**_, with a Magnum?!'_

I wasn't going to. I _couldn't_.

I run a trembling hand through my hair as I set my weapon on the pavement.

_'What the hell am I doing?'_

Thoughts of self-doubt begin creeping out of every corner of my mind, slowly paralyzing me. Nausea takes a hold, though if it's from panic or my deteriorating condition, I can't be certain. For a moment, I consider running away. Running as far away as possible. Then what? What the fuck would that solve? I would be alone, slowly dying from my ill-treated injures. That is, if some other Infected didn't kill me first. So what does it matter? The real question is, do I want to wander off and find a nice place to curl up and die? Or, do I want meet my end here, where I can at least do some good?

My eyes trail downward until they settle on my hideous shoes. A voice echos through my mind, one belonging to the departed Ovah. I expected my subconscious to give me a stirring pep talk, telling me that I would be a hero. That I would be making an honorable sacrifice. Of course, that wouldn't sound right coming from her.

The 'words of encouragement' I receive are more of a lecture. She criticizes me. Making a big point of how quickly my 'heroic act' fell apart. She's right. It's pathetic. _I_, am pathetic. Look at me, using the memory of friend, of a family member, to put myself down. Is there anything left of me to salvage? Anything left of who I _was_?

No. Not really. Though I don't consider that fact to be entirely negative. Back in that alley, I couldn't save anyone. I could torture myself with never ending 'what if's', but that wouldn't change anything. I may not have been able to save any of their lives, but I have a chance to make a difference here. I doubt I'll be able to take this behemoth down, but I'll provide enough of a distraction so the other Survivors can get away.

Self-preservation has been thoroughly discarded. Fuck the means as long as I get the desired results. As I retrieve my weapon and weakly climb onto the hummer beside me, I ponder my true motivation. Was it a delusion of being heroic? Was it to make up for not protecting my group? Or was it my way of avenging their deaths? I truly can't say.

"Honestly," I grunt, taking aim at the beast oblivious to my presence. "I don't fucking care."

A single shot rings out. At first, there is no reaction from the monstrosity, and I fear I have missed. Then, ever so slowly, the Apex revolves until it is facing me. I fight off my instinct to flee as the creature's milky, diseased eyes meet mine. Even from this distance, I could tell the beast's pupils were slightly more prominent than any other Infected I've come across. It was disturbing just how much it seemed to be studying me, like it was searching for weaknesses.

My quivering hand, still outstretched, squeezes the trigger once more, embedding another bullet into the massive wall of muscle that once was a man. The freak of nature barely reacts, only tilts its head slightly to observe the gentle trickle of blood exiting the wound in its shoulder. The Apex then looks back to me with narrowed eyes, like I was a minor pest, not someone that just shot it _twice_.

"Come on..." I growl, holstering my gun before taking a Molotov from my belt. "Come after me you son of a bitch!"

The abomination's face scrunches angrily as it watches me produce a Zippo from my coat pocket and light the cloth protruding from my deadly projectile. Taking advantage of my platform's size, I move a couple steps back before launching the Molotov as hard as I can, involuntarily crying out from the pain of my ripping stitches.

The Apex barrels forth at my sudden movement, not unlike any Tank thrown into a fit of rage. I watch as the Molotov arcs toward its target, anxiously awaiting it to make contact. I wasn't sure what to expect from the Apex, but the next action it takes presents a clear omen of my fate. Just before the bottle hits its mark, the beast reaches out, catches the projectile, and swiftly launches it back. I nearly fall off the vehicle when the bottle shatters on its hood, setting my platform ablaze.

The Tank slams its hands together, extinguishing the small flame that made contact with its skin when it deflected the Molotov. I stare at the creature with wide eyes as it looks back to me, as if expectantly. We stand there a moment longer, waiting for the other to make a move. The Apex's expression changes slightly. It's difficult to read, even though it's jaw is slightly more intact than your average Tank, but if I wasn't so distrustful of my current state of mind I would think it's..._grinning_.

It knows that Molotov was the best I had. It's sure it can beat me.

I only just come to this realization when the abomination rips a wheel from a nearby car and sends it propelling in my direction. My reflexes barely save me, allowing me to quickly roll off the hummer and land awkwardly on the pavement. I struggle to my feet and turn to run, taking the Apex's challenging roar as my cue to put as much distance between us as possible.

As I weave between the closely parked vehicles, I risk a look over my shoulder at the sound of scraping metal. The hulking man was not letting the tight pathway slow him down, using his massive size to muscle aside any obstacle separating him from his prey. When I return my attention to my current course, I notice a small cluster of Commons to my right making a mad dash in attempt to catch me before the testosterone driven man. I reach into my pocket, searching desperately for something to use for defense. I am rewarded with an item I had forgotten I carried: a road flare. It wouldn't kill the Infected of course, but it made for a great distraction. After activating the device, I quickly toss it somewhere out of my route, watching as the Commons turn to pursue the strange, bright object.

After successfully deterring the simple Infected, I retrieve my Magnum from its holster and open fire on the persistent Apex. Only one shot hits its target before the behemoth tears a door from an adjacent automobile and positions it like a shield, making further use of my weapon pointless. My Magnum may not be very effective in the first place, but the massive Infected new better than to allow too many shots to reach their goal.

I had not been very confident in my ability to defeat the Apex to start with, but I had hoped to do more damage than this. Does it really matter though? Does it matter as long as the other Survivors escape with their supplies? I crane my neck as I pass one of the shorter cars, suddenly finding myself curious of the caravan's progress. I was hoping to see the line of vehicles pulling away, or at the very least the annihilation of the massive swarm of Infected. A flash of lightning reveals neither of my desires, instead I see a small group of the Survivors fighting their way toward me. Their primary weapons depleted of ammunition, the squad is armed with nothing more than blunt objects and weaker handguns.

_'Damn it! Don't they understand what I'm trying to do?!'_

Seeing another horde of Commons, I ignite a second road flare and throw it out of my path. I turn to my apparent rescuers and use my Magnum to pick off a few of the Infected ailing their progress. A tall, scrawny, dark skinned man locks eyes with me and opens his mouth to speak. I cut him off, manners being the least of my concern.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I shriek, trying to be heard over the roaring wind. "You and your group need to get out of here before more of these fuckers show up!"

The man and his comrades gawk at me, confused by my reaction to their presence. Before they can speak, a hunk of vehicular wreckage smashes between us, missing us by a mere yard. I take our brush with death as a sign to depart, shouting my final words to the Survivors as I back away.

"Get back to the others and go! I'll distract the Tank!"

I don't wait for a response. I produce another road flare from my pocket and activate it as I run. This time I do not throw it, instead I wave it over my head and yell for the Apex's attention, urging it to continue seeking me and not the newcomers. I'm not sure if my actions work, or if the beast never intended to change targets in the first place. Either way, it bellows in rage, perhaps angered by my taunting, and launches a concrete road divider as I retreat back into the tight maze of abandoned automobiles.

The projectile collides with a car behind me, the crunch of metal and shattering of glass nearly drowned out by the booming thunder. The cluster of gas guzzlers greatly aids in slowing the Apex, but the obstacle poses many dangers. My visibility is considerably hindered when surrounded by larger vehicles, making it difficult to determine the safest route. This is made infuriatingly apparent when I'm met with an unpleasant surprise as I go around an over turned fire truck.

Just as I clear the vehicle, three Commons materialize out of seemingly nowhere and tackle me to the ground. I cry out in agony as the Infected deliver blow after blow to my existing wounds. Furious, I seize the closest offender by its disintegrating shirt collar and drive the still lit road flare into its eye. The diseased man wails in pain and stumbles backward, swatting aggressively at its face. The remaining Commons are barely kept at bay, my arms taking the brunt of their assault. One just manages to breach my meager defenses when half of a bumper collides with her, effectively freeing me. The last Infected meets a similar fate, though he is swiftly crushed by a mutilated car door.

I roll to face the projectile's origin with great difficulty, knowing full well what I would see. The Apex Tank was but two car lengths away, its hurried pace reduced to a near leisure stroll.

Why didn't it kill me? The beast could have easily taken us all out with a single toss of a car. Why did it only target the Commons? I shudder when my mind conjures up a disturbing idea. Maybe it was a message to the other Infected. I was its kill and its kill alone.

_Mine._

I attempt to rise and flee from approaching death, but my uncooperative legs send me back to the hard, unforgiving concrete. My heart rate increases as the vibration in the pavement grows stronger with each progressive step the monstrosity takes. I try to crawl away, to prolong the inevitable, but the dragging becomes too painful for my injuries to bare. Feebly, I retrieve my Magnum from it's holster and take aim at the Tank. My arms begin to shake uncontrollably, be it fear or the deterioration of my body, it's anyone's guess.

Only two shots are fired before the Apex decides to retaliate. The behemoth lazily lifts one of its massive arms and quickly brings it back down, delivering a powerful strike.

At first, I feel nothing. Is it possible for a pain to be so intense, you briefly go numb? Your mind unable or unwilling to register the assault on the body? The only sensation I feel is that of weightlessness as I'm sent airborne. The world seems to fly by me in slow motion. Burning wreckage, swarming Infected, decaying remains of a once bustling city; it all falls into my sight for an instant. I hear nothing. Nothing but a dull, persistent ring. The irritant is only disrupted when my flailing body finally makes contact with something solid.

A crash; something shattering. The sound of breaking glass? Or my bones? Perhaps both. Still, I barely feel anything as my body rolls off the hood of a car and lands in a crumpled heap. I lie there, shrouded in darkness, unsure if my eyes are closed or if my vision was failing. The veil clouding my sight slowly lifts, allowing me a blurry view of what may be my final resting place.

The tires of the vehicle I collided with comes into focus. I weakly extend an arm and clutch the automobile's bumper, using it to attempt to lift my body. I am only able to rise to my hands and knees before the pain finally registers. No...not pain. Such a word can't describe this agony. Getting punched in the jaw? That's painful. Having something really heavy dropped on your foot? That's painful. This? What I'm feeling right now?

Indescribable.

My face contorts, eyes shut tight as I open my mouth in a silent scream. Perhaps it wasn't silent, the ringing still very much prominent in my ears. When I finally open my eyes, I am struck with an intense wave of nausea. My vision swims and my eyes begin to throb painfully as I try in vain to keep focus. When I can fight it no longer, I violently empty the contents of my stomach onto the bloody pavement.

Is it my blood? Hard to say.

I'm given no time to recover. Shortly after I become ill, something roughly grabs my leg and begins to drag me. I don't protest, or fight. I barely even register the action that would ordinarily cause me great discomfort. The next thing I know, I'm upside-down, suspended by whatever clutched my leg. Slowly I am rotated, my eyes rolling in their sockets as I struggle to stay conscious. Eventually, I am face to face with my captor.

The Apex. I shouldn't be surprised.

It's odd. I've never been so close to a Tank. I don't think anyone has, and lived to tell about it. I should be terrified, but I'm not. I feel numb, indifferent. Accepting of my fate. As I wearily meet the beast's unnerving gaze, I know there is no way out. Yes…no way out.

For either of us.

I shakily reach for my belt rigging, which miraculously kept secure, and fumble with my last Molotov. After much difficulty, I free it and reach into my coat pocket with my other hand to retrieve my Zippo. The Tank growls menacingly when it sees the lighter. Before I can bring the flame to the cloth extending from the bottle, the Apex gives me a harsh jolt, causing me to drop the only thing I had to create a fire.

Wait…not the only thing.

I grind my teeth at the new stab of pain brought on by the sudden movement, swearing all too loudly as I cling desperately to the Molotov lest the beast try to rid me of it as well. The hulking behemoth emits a rumbling noise, sounding eerily similar to a laugh, before reaching for my arm. I take this as my chance to put my new plan into action. Before the beast can further restrict my movements, I throw the unlit Molotov against the wall of muscle that is its chest.

The Tank pauses, not flinches, to briefly examine the offensive liquid dribbling down its body. In this small window of opportunity, I hurriedly snatch the hunting knife from my belt and conceal it in my coat sleeve.

"You've fucked up." I wheeze, catching the Apex's attention.

It narrows its eyes dangerously and raises an arm to strike. As fast as I am able, I struggle into a crunch and, freeing the knife from its hiding place, drive the blade deep into the Tank's hand. I am released immediately as the Apex stumbles back, howling with agony and rage.

The moment I hit concrete, I have to fight against the temptation to just lie there and wait for death. I knew I wasn't going to survive, but I swore I wasn't done until I was sure this bastard went down. _Fuck_ this is cliché. Who would have thought the "If I'm going down I'm taking you with me" mentality would be so appealing?

"Like I said, you've fucked up."

I reach into my pocket and produce my final road flare. I activate it and hold it above my head for the Infected monster to see. The Apex's eyes widen before it charges, its furious bellows rivaling the near deafening thunder. It wouldn't matter if the beast attempted to deflect this projectile. If the flare gets close enough, the Tank will undoubtedly ignite.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance you cocky son of a bitch!" I slur weakly, throwing the flare with all my remaining energy.

I prop myself up long enough to see the once threatening Apex go up in a blaze. The bulky monstrosity roars in anguish, flailing madly as it vainly seeks relief from the unimaginable horror of fire enveloping flesh. I grin as I collapse to the ground, my body shuddering with suppressed laughter. My labored cackling eventually reaches an audible level when I feel the cool kiss of rain lightly pattering against my face.

"_Took it long enough."_ I think dully. _"I thought the rain would never get here."_

The intensity of my laughter causes my sides to ache. It grows louder and harder with each passing second, the sound morphing into a manic scream. I don't know why this is happening, why it started in the first place, but I do know it's fucking _scaring_ me.

I've lost it. I'm gone. Drowning in an inhumane shriek I don't even recognize as my own. My mind cries desperately for it to stop. The rain, the roaring wind, the rumbling thunder, the screams, it's all too much. The dissonance amplifies further and further until I can take it no longer.

Gunfire. Yelling. Screams.

Then nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Oh fuck! Derek's dead! D8

Wait...oh right. BD *Bricked*

Looks like our Romantic Comedy loving goof ball went on a hell of a roller coaster. I don't care what people say, fear is fucking _crippling_. I haven't experienced such a level of fright, but I, like many, would hope I could overcome it. Derek managed, not easily mind you, and he just about lost his damn mind!

We'll be returning to the present next chapter, so worry not fans of derp! As for those of you who are enjoying this dark twist, you'll be happy to know we'll be revisiting more of Derek's past. After all, don't we want to know how things went from shit to sunshine?

P.S. This chapter makes me ANGRY. *Isn't satisfied*


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